


The Trembling Of The Migratory Birds

by eretria



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Case Fic, Drama, F/M, Finland (Country), First Kiss, First Time, Gen, Het and Slash, M/M, Multi, RST, Russia, Threesome - F/M/M, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-10
Updated: 2012-02-10
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:31:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 122,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eretria/pseuds/eretria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saito's job referral draws Arthur, Eames, and Ariadne together for an extraction in Finland that proves unexpectedly dangerous and difficult, pushing the three of them past all limits and into a precarious and tender three-cornered relationship. In which Ariadne loses the future she'd planned, Eames loses the past he thought he'd already thrown away, and Arthur loses his distance, secrets are revealed and a dance for two becomes a tango for three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. NREM

**Author's Note:**

> _Authors' Note regarding warnings_ : I want everyone to enjoy this story, not encounter something upsetting. I have tagged for the obvious, but I don't know what people's individual triggers are. So if you have specific triggers and would still like to give a story a go and find yourself wary now, please contact me with a comment here and leave me a way to contact you privately. I will answer your question in e-mail, generally within a couple hours, a day at the most.
> 
>  **Link to art master post (contains spoilers!):** [Here](http://kymericl.livejournal.com/25856.html).  
>  **Link to music post (contains spoilers!):** [Here](http://eretria.livejournal.com/682026.html).

   
Moscow is shrouded in acrid smoke when Arthur walks across the _Krásnaya plóshchad._ The Kremlin disappears in eerie dry fog that burns his lungs and stings his eyes.  
   
The wildfires around Moscow have the city in a literal choke-hold. The evening light tints the air orange and Arthur feels as though he's walking through a wall of solid fire. Brave Japanese tourists fight the losing battle against the smoke, traipsing around with surgical masks over their faces and cameras at the ready, but Arthur only spares them a passing glance. He's on a schedule. He still has no idea why Saito wanted to meet him in Moscow of all places, and most of all, why Saito couldn't give Arthur his business proposal over the phone, but you don't argue with someone like Saito. He snaps his fingers, you jump. With enough money offered, it really is that simple.  
   
He reaches the brightly lit doorway of the Ritz Carlton and is greeted by a liveried concierge in fluent, if accented English, and wonders briefly what gave him away before he remembers Saito will have told them to expect him. The concierge motions for a young woman in an impeccable uniform and she leads Arthur through the bright marble grandeur of Russian imperialistic style to a restaurant he knows from research is hidden behind a hand-carved door. The hotel is built in a style Arthur usually only sees in dreams. He never indulges himself in this type of luxury, though since started dream work he's never had to worried about money, and he usually never meets his clients personally. That's a matter of keeping the business alive. If too many people know your face, the likelihood of getting caught at the next airport is a lot higher. It's enough that there used to be a warrant out for Cobb's head.  
   
The door with the intricate carving of Cherubim surrounding a crest of arms swings aside and Arthur breathes in the scents of wood, wax, starched table-linens, caviar and age. The restaurant, which should be buzzing with wealthy tourists, is empty. Elaborate, heavy candle-holders illuminate the room and candle flames bring out the warmth of the wood. Only one table is set.  
   
Arthur quirks a small smile. Of course. Saito doesn't want any listeners. It wouldn't surprise him if Saito bought the restaurant just to have it to himself for the night.  
   
The table is set with shot glasses and mother-of-pearl plates and spoons. Offered a shot of vodka as he sits down, Arthur declines. As a rule, he never drinks on a job. Instead, he takes in his surroundings. The polished, dark burl and cherry wood décor along the walls of the _Caviarterra_ imitates an ancient Tsar's palace, the furnishings are heavy and impressive, made to intimidate visitors. It's beautiful in an oppressive way. A buffet waits in the middle of the room, decked with bread, mountains of caviar, and fresh strawberries.  
   
Saito shows up only minutes later and the woman whom Arthur has correctly pegged as a personal butler leaves the room so quietly he's left to wonder if she was ever there in the first place.  
   
"It is good to see you again, Arthur," Saito greets him with a thin-lipped smile that through some marvellous magic manages to look both sincere and menacing. Arthur finds himself smiling in return.  
   
"Likewise, Mr. Saito."  
   
"I assume you're hungry," Saito continues and motions toward the buffet. "Please. Be my guest."  
   
Arthur has never much liked caviar but takes some nevertheless. He watches Saito eat with the boredom of a man who has seen everything the haute cuisine has to offer. The simplicity of the caviar and the bread, however, seems to cheer him up a little.  
   
"How is Mr. Cobb?"  
   
Arthur swallows a bite of bread and fights the urge to cough. Saito and pleasantries don't go together well. Especially since Arthur is certain that Saito keeps close tabs on Cobb.  
   
"Why don't you tell me?" he asks before he takes a sip of water.  
   
Saito's eyes narrow, then he smoothes his face into blankness. "You overestimate my resources."  
   
 _Like hell_ , Arthur thinks. "How's your airline?"  
   
Saito smiles a real smile at this, the unspoken 'touché' hangs between them like a wisp of cigar smoke. "Flourishing. How is Miss Ariadne?"  
   
"Brilliant." He knows she just finished her degree in architecture. He's sent her a gift. She's called to tell him she's bored. "How's your company doing?"  
   
Something flickers over Saito's face, but it's gone before Arthur can decipher it. "Dominant. Have you talked to Mr. Eames lately?"  
   
Arthur has to fight to keep his poker-face at this question and he wonders if Saito knows Eames has disappeared. Arthur lost track of him in Macao and hasn't been able to trace him since. Before the Fischer job Arthur would try to find him for months and only get hold of him when Eames called – _"Been looking for me, darling?"_ – at which point Arthur had wanted to strangle him through the telephone line. Or with it. That has always been the game. One could only find Eames on his terms. Right now, it seems that Eames doesn't want to be found. Arthur wonders, again, if Saito has run into the same problem. "I wasn't in need of his services," Arthur answers and hopes it sounds smooth.  
   
Saito nods and washes a spoonful of caviar down with a shot of vodka. "You seemed closer than business acquaintances. History?"  
   
Arthur's shoulders knot and he feels a displeased frown appear on his face before he can stop it. "Saito, as much as I enjoy the chit-chat, was there a reason you called me here?" Inwardly, he winces at his bluntness. Outwardly, he laces his fingers, rests them on the table, and raises an eyebrow at Saito.  
   
"Did I make you think of the proverbial elephant?" Saito asks and smirks.  
   
Arthur wants to throw the damn caviar in his face. "Unless Eames has gained a lot of weight, I wouldn't draw that comparison." His tone stays perfectly neutral. He rubs his thumbs together. "The reason."  
   
Saito reaches for the napkin to dab at his mouth, then leans back in his chair. "How is your work schedule?"  
   
 _None of your business_ , Arthur wants to say, but answers, "Flexible."  
   
This seems to please Saito. Irrationally, Arthur thinks he looks relieved. "Very good. In that case, I have some acquaintances who would be interested in a," Saito clears his throat, "man of your talents."  
 

***

   
Arthur is back on a plane out of Moscow only two hours later with nothing but number on a business card in the breast pocket of his suit and an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. _Easy job_ , Saito said. _Easy money_.  
   
There is no such thing.  
   
Arthur still smells smoke everywhere on himself and wonders if it's an omen.  
 

***

   
The usual buzz of London has quieted when Arthur gets off the Heathrow Express at ten p.m. and walks from Paddington toward Sussex Gardens. He avoids cabs whenever he can; he doesn't have any hang-ups about trains like Dom does, in fact, he prefers the anonymity of the crowds on trains. Plus, four hours on a plane have him stiff and enjoying the walk.  
   
His hotel is understated and comfortable, a former Victorian terraced town-house. He shields his face from the CCTV as well as he can without being obvious as he bends over the intercom to announce himself. Good tradecraft is a habit with him. The door swings open with a quiet buzz and he is issued the key-card to his room swiftly and without unnecessary chatter.  
   
He closes the heavy curtains to block out the light from the Sussex Gardens below before stripping and stepping under the blessedly hot spray of the shower. He spends a good fifteen minutes there, knowing that during the upcoming job, he might have to forego the luxury of a nice hotel.  
   
 _"It's quick money,"_ _Saito says. "Just a little extraction, no need for a big team. All you need to do is say yes. And get to London."_  
   
It is up to him what is necessary on a job, so Arthur hadn't reacted. If Saito is right and the client has already done most of the research, then it's a one-man job and he won't need a specialized extractor. But that is a big if. One-man jobs are a myth.  
   
Dream-sharing is never a one-man job. It's too dangerous to rely on no one but yourself. And nothing ensures the success of an extraction so much as a good architect. Saito's promises don't change those truths.  
   
He holds his face under the spray and lets the hot water gentle his niggling headache away. His mind is racing with the possibilities, the options. Who is available, who would he be willing to work with, who is willing to work with him without Dom on board too. (Who wouldn't work with him _with_ Dom, but might now... )  
   
Of course he knows that he doesn't really want any of the names he summons to mind. He's been spoiled, spoiled rotten, by Ariadne's quick thinking and precise work, and he knows that he'll never be satisfied with anyone who can do less than her. It's a matter of professionalism to only surround yourself with the best.  
   
It's not fair to her, though. She deserves a better life than the one they lead. Dom was right when he said that one reality would no longer be enough for her, though.  
   
Arthur remembers her look when she told him that dream architecture was pure creation. She’d caught the bug then. He knows she'll never fight that infection.  
   
He steps out of the shower when his stomach grumbles in protest about being ignored for the past six hours. Arthur writes a couple of e-mails, then looks up recommendations for Indian restaurants in the area, sitting cross-legged in front of his laptop on the bed with the towel slung around his hips until the drops on his skin dry and a chill settles in. His stomach rumbles again. It's time for a good curry and then a long night of sleep. He doesn't expect to hear from the client until the morning.  
   
Arthur is slipping into his suit jacket on his way out the door when he checks his phone for messages. As though on cue, it signals a missed text message. The number looks familiar – of course it does. He's had more than enough time to memorise the number on the card Saito has given him. He opens the message, scans the few lines. "Angelus, 4 Bathurst Street, 10.45 p.m.."  
   
He checks his watch and curses. Ten thirty-five. _Damn it._  
   
He races out of the door, doesn't bother calling a cab. He'll be faster on foot.  
 

***

   
After forcing his breathing to slow, Arthur has a slight case of déjà vu when he enters the restaurant and is immediately led into the private wine cellar. He's awaited by a man and a woman sitting on silver-backed chairs in front of a wine shelf that spans the entire wall.  
   
The man is wearing a grey suit that has wrinkles in the back, showing that he's been wearing it all day. He wears perfectly shined shoes and a watch that's pompous for the suit. His hair is a premature salt-and-pepper, while his features are the sort of handsome that is easily forgotten. Arthur assumes he's in his early forties or has a very talented cosmetic surgeon.  
   
His companion is in her late twenties, dressed in a tan suit with a white blouse underneath that sets off her milk-and-coffee skin perfectly. Her dark hair is cut short and frames her well-formed skull. She smiles when she looks up. Soft pink lipstick. No mascara.  
   
"You're on time," she says. "We weren't sure if it wasn't a little on short notice." Her voice has the gentle lilt of Yorkshire.  
   
It's the words he notices more, though. Emotional intelligence. Put on the pressure by kindness, by needling the opponent's professionalism. Arthur sees through the strategy and smiles. "Not at all."  
   
"Please, sit," the man speaks for the first time and motions for a chair. "Wine?"  
   
Arthur declines. They still haven't introduced themselves, but Arthur knows they won't offer their real names, so it doesn't matter.  
   
"My name is Siobhan Farnborough, this is Mr. Pollard." Put the man at a remove, make the woman the approachable one by giving her a first name. It's psychology 101 and Arthur wants to laugh.  
   
"It is nice to meet you. I'm sure Mr. Saito has informed you about me," Arthur says, stopping the introductory round before it can get into full swing. He's tired and not in the mood for platitudes.  
   
Farnborough smiles. "He has spoken very highly of you."  
   
She falls silent when the waiter comes to take their orders. Arthur flicks through the menu, orders the first thing he reads, "Soufflé à la mûre, crème glacée au miel." His French, he's pleased to note, is still fluent. He finishes his order with a cup of coffee he hopes will be better than the one at the hotel.  
   
Pollard, who's been silent until now picks up the conversation after the waiter has retreated, and compliments Arthur on his work.  
   
Saito must have sung Arthur's praises; Pollard seems impressed. He also clearly expected someone older. Arthur sees it in the surreptitious looks, the slow up and down of Pollard and Farnborough's eyes. He hopes he doesn't look as tired as he feels.  
   
"You require someone with my skill-set?" Arthur finally asks when he's had enough of the buttering up.  
   
"We would prefer not to," Farnborough says, "but yes." The buttons on her suit, not-plastic, horn or shell, glisten with a nacreous sheen when she moves. Her earrings – pearls, expensive, real – touch her neck when she ducks her head a little as though embarrassed. It's a show. Well orchestrated, but a show.  
   
Inwardly, Arthur is as tense as a violin-string, he just wants the offer out on the table instead of dancing around it. This is exactly the reason he normally doesn't take job offers in person. Outwardly, he maintains his placid persona. "How can I offer my expertise?"  
   
The food arrives and puts the conversation on hold once again. Arthur sips his coffee and picks at the dessert he has ordered and finds that he can't taste either of them. He's too high-strung, too focused on the details of the room, the possible exit routes, the people across the table from him. He knows this stage, can only wait for his other senses to just shut down, because the challenges now are strictly intellectual. That doesn't mean this isn't just as dangerous as any other stage of the business they're negotiating, only that he needs to conceal he is aware of it.  
   
Pollard takes a sip of his red wine – _Château l´Evangile 1985_ , a younger brother to the quintessential _Petrus –_ the bottle costing just over 200 Pounds. It's a show of strength in counterpoint to Arthur's 20 Pound dessert dish. Pollard makes a show of swirling the wine in the glass while looking at Arthur. It sloshes in the glass in lazy, ruby-red swirls. "Mr. Saito said you were the best."  
   
Arthur inclines his head but keeps eye-contact. Pollard's eyes are an icy blue. Crow's feet surround them. His brows are plucked into shape.  
   
"We find ourselves in a situation where we need the absolute best."  
   
 _Just fucking_ say _it_ , Arthur thinks and unclenches his hand from around the coffee cup when the heat burns his hand. "It would help, Mr. Pollard, if we stopped dancing around the issue."  
   
Farnborough fights a smile and meets Pollard's gaze. "I told you you'd like him."  
   
Pollard huffs, then reaches into his jacket pocket. Arthur tenses, his fight-or-flight reflex going into overdrive. He's not sure if Pollard will draw a gun. Physical threats aren't normally part of this stage, but they aren't unknown either.  
   
Pollard puts a picture on the table. Arthur relaxes slightly and breathes a little deeper. The picture shows a young man with strictly-combed dark hair and a sickly pallor to his skin. Absurdly, he reminds Arthur of a vampire – one only in training, though.  
   
When it finally happens, the shop-talk is over quickly.  
   
"This is Ari-Pekka Saarela." Pollard pushes the picture toward Arthur. "He is your mark."  
   
Farnborough hands him a flash-drive with a dossier on Saarela. Pollard tells him the issue is time-sensitive; their bosses need Saarela's information before the end of the week. The sum they offer in exchange for the rush job is handsome. Handsome enough to bring an architect on board instead of flying solo.  
   
"In and out," Pollard says, "quick and dirty and simple."  
   
 _Simple, hm?_ Arthur doesn't buy that for a minute. Nothing is ever simple. He steeples his fingers, looks at Farnborough instead of Pollard. "Tell me, Miss Farnborough, if it's so simple, why do you need the best?" He lifts a shoulder, then an eyebrow. "Anyone could do it."  
   
She smiles, wide, and it transforms her into a devastatingly attractive woman. "Very well spotted," she appraises. The smile fades quickly. "Others have tried. No one has succeeded."  
   
"Militarised subconscious?"  
   
"Nothing that drastic."  
   
Arthur frowns. "In that case I don't see – "  
   
Farnborough raises a hand to stop him and leans back in her chair. "We hear you don't use Somnacin?" She reaches for her glass – water, sparkling, with a wedge of lemon inside – and takes a sip. Her gaze stays on him, gauging him for a reaction.  
   
"You're well-informed," Arthur acknowledges.  
   
A sneer flashes over Pollard's face before he smoothes his face into professional blankness. "In that case you're just the man we need."  
   
"Forgive the bluntness, but, why?"  
   
"The company he works for has a very strict anti-drug policy and requires a drug-testing bi-weekly. As you well know, Somnacin can be traced in urine samples up to a day and in blood samples up to five days after it has been administered."  
   
"So do it far enough in advance before the next test and you're fine with Somnacin. Why me?" Arthur's aware that he's playing a dangerous game here, his questions could cost him the job, but he wants the real motive. He's not going to take a job where he can't be sure about the true reason for them wanting him. There are a lot of good extractors out there, after all. Their offer flatters him, of course it does, but he still needs to know _why_.  
   
"The tests rotate from blood to urine to hair samples. No one but the testers know which one will be administered next."  
   
Arthur takes another sip of his coffee. "That's an employer with trust issues," he mutters against the rim of the cup and Farnborough cracks a grin that doesn't look rehearsed.  
   
"Indeed," she says. "Which is why we need someone of your calibre to get around the Somnacin problem. The extraction itself is simple."  
   
Arthur shakes his head. "You need a chemist for that problem, not an extractor."  
   
Farnborough and Pollard share a smile that Arthur doesn't like. "We know from good authority that you are well-stocked."  
   
Touché. Well-stocked with Yusuf's custom formulas, but they aren't so different from normal Somnacin that a screen won't catch them; they wouldn't work with the PASIV if they were. Arthur doesn't like dreaming with the really different drugs; Somnacin became the industry standard for a reason: its results are predictable. He decides not to explain any of this to Farnborough or Pollard; they think they know everything, correcting them with the facts won't endear Arthur to them and he doesn't actually want to convince them they don't need to hire him.  
   
"Again, I ask you: Why me?"  
   
Pollard shrugs. "Because we can afford it."  
   
And that's that. Finally, the truth. Strangely enough, Arthur buys this over anything else they could have said. It's idiotic enough to be true. They have the arrogance and egotism to ask for the best just because they can.  
   
The conversation dies quickly after and they part ways.  
   
He relaxes a little.  
   
Some extra money never hurts. He realises he no longer needs Dom to arrange jobs.  
   
Every man for himself. For the first time since Moscow, Arthur feels a little optimistic.  
 

***

   
The first flight to Helsinki leaves at six a.m., leaving him with under two hours of sleep before leaving the hotel.  
   
He books it anyway.  
   
The two hours he has left are hardly worth the hotel costs, and he knows that trying to go to sleep now will only make the next day harder instead of easier, so he stays awake.  
   
He thinks about the uncomfortable meeting one last time over a cup of bad, powdered coffee from the complimentary coffee tray before he makes his decision. A client who wants the best because he has enough money to afford it. It'd be a compliment if the casual throwing around of money didn't disgust him so. Compliments or contempt aren't reasons to refuse a job. Also, the client comes via Saito. That counts as trustworthy in his book.  
   
He decides to go over the intel while he waits to check out, to find the holes in the dossier he'll need to fill his own research. There are other arrangements to make as well. He can accomplish a great deal in two hours, even in the shank of the night. Like all great cities and whores, London is always awake for those willing to pay enough.  
   
He'll need false IDs messengered from a trusted paperhanger to the first of several hotels he'll book. Needs to research a base of operations, as well as at least three different exit strategies in case something goes wrong. He's going to have to arrange for arms in-country unless he wants a lengthy discussion at Heathrow on why he's carrying a Glock 17 in his suitcase. Setting up several bank accounts online to pay for the arms and equipment he needs, but spread out enough so no dots can be connected, is old hat, a routine he perfected with Dom that serves just as well with his old partner gone. It's going to be a pricey stint, but with Saito overlooking the whole operation from afar, Arthur's sure that he won't be cheated out of his money.  
   
In the end, the pay will make the uncomfortably tight schedule worth it. Arthur makes a mental note to call Saito once this is done and thank him for the recommendation.  
   
But first, his stomach demands attention and then there is a phone call he needs to make.  
 

***

   
Arthur calls Ariadne after a satisfyingly spicy take-out Vindaloo, with the heat still pronounced on his tongue. Her phone rings a good five times before she picks up.  
   
Eventually, "Mnh?" is the muffled answer.  
   
Arthur grins. "Did I wake you?"  
   
She's not even surprised to hear his voice. "What makes you think I sleep at one-thirty a.m. on a Thursday morning?" Her voice is dripping sleep-muddled sarcasm.  
   
He winces, realises that he forgot the time difference between London and Paris. "Your charming greeting gave you away," he offers. "Though you have to work on your eloquence."  
   
She groans and he imagines her pulling the blanket over her head. "It's too early for this." Her voice sounds muffled. "What do you want?"  
   
"What do you think about architecture in Helsinki?" he asks.  
   
"Good music," is the deadpan reply. "Why?"  
   
"I thought maybe you could _Do the whirlwind_."  
   
She laughs, surprised as she catches the reference, obviously even more surprised that he's made it, then stops short. "You mean…"  
   
"What I mean is, would you be interested in a – "  
   
" _Yes!_ " she interrupts him before he can even finish the question. There's no trace of fatigue left in her voice.  
   
Arthur grins.  
   
"When and where?"  
   
"Seven a.m., Orly to Vantaa. Check your e-mail for details."  
   
"You already booked a flight?" she asks, sounding incredulous. "Arthur, you didn't even know I was going to say yes."  
   
"Didn't I?" he asks and doesn't bother hiding the amused inflection in his voice. "Good night, Ariadne. I'll see you in Finland."  
 

***

   
His phone rings when he's in the middle of security at Heathrow. The woman behind the X-Ray machine gives him a polite if pointed glare and he shuts the phone off. He doesn't recognise the number anyway. Whoever wants to reach him will call again.  
   
It rings again immediately after he has cleared security and turned it back on.  
   
"Are you trying to avoid me?" The low, accented voice is impossible to mistake. Arthur doesn't need Eames to introduce himself.  
   
"Get caller-ID, Eames," he says, but there's no heat in it.  
   
An announcement for security advices and last calls drowns out Eames' reply. When it ends, he hears Eames chuckle.  
   
"Say hi to Lizzie for me."  
   
"She's your queen, not mine. Do it yourself."  
   
"Oh, there are just so many ways to interpret that statement," Eames drawls, amused.  
   
Arthur feels the corners of his mouth tip up. He's not going to admit it under the threat of torture, but he's missed this. "You're a hard man to find, Mr. Eames. Where have you been?"  
   
"Did you miss me?" Eames laughs. "I'm touched."  
   
Arthur suddenly has the urge to hang up. "Was there a reason you called?"  
   
There's a pause in the line, Arthur strains his ears and thinks he hears the screaming of trains in the background. "This is a bit embarrassing."  
   
Arthur snorts and starts following signs indicating the path to Terminal 1. "Embarrassing is not in your vocabulary, Eames."  
   
Eames huffs a laugh, the exhalation loud against the phone's speaker. "The man just knows me too well."  
   
"It's in the job description," Arthur replies, letting a smile colour his words despite better knowledge. "So?"  
   
"I'll get this out quickly." Eames clears his throat. "Got a job, old boy? I'm a bit skint."  
   
Arthur stops walking. Something cold trickles down his spine. "You're… skint?" Eames received the same insane amount of money from Saito that Arthur did. It's improbable. It's impossible.  
   
"Afraid so."  
   
On the other hand, it is _Eames_. It might be true.  
   
"Eames." He inflects all his disbelief into that one word.  
   
Eames starts to explain as people bustle around Arthur and he steps aside to not get pulled into a stream of travellers trying to catch a flight that's already on last call. There's a tale of a beautiful woman, a coffee planter's mistress, fleeing Rio in the dead of night, and expensive presents – bribes – bought to save his skin. Arthur tunes it out, as he knows it's false. Eames is a forger. He's good at spinning tales, but Arthur knows that for all his appearance, Eames is anything but feckless with money. A forger's life requires money. Eames has probably invested his well and safely. So, why is Eames calling him? He's never done it before to ask for a job. Ever. Arthur has always had to seek him out.  
   
"Cut the crap, Eames," he interrupts Eames just as he's about to launch into a tale of the coffee planter being part of the local Mafia.  
   
"You need to learn to appreciate a good story," Eames says, not sounding disappointed in the least.  
   
"What do you really want?"  
   
Eames chuckles and Arthur realises too late that he gave Eames another opening. "More money, ideally," Eames answers, "you," Arthur can picture him counting on his fingers, "another tattoo, world peace, you, and blimey," a groan, it sounds as though Eames is stretching, "I'd kill for a good cup of tea right now."  
   
Arthur clenches his hand around his carry-on. "Eames."  
   
"Fine, fine, misery-guts." Eames takes a deep breath. His voice changes to something lower, something intimate. "I hear you're soloing?"  
   
Arthur shifts from one foot to the other. "Yes."  
   
"It's difficult after working as a team for so long."  
   
"And how would you know about that?"  
   
"I had a partner once," Eames says, more of a fleeting mention, meant to be forgotten, and hell if that doesn't bring Arthur up short.  
   
"You." It's difficult to put the amount of disbelief he wants to into just the one word, but he tries.  
   
Arthur hears, "Is that so unlikely?" and the words are meant to sound amused but fall short. He thinks this might be the most honest he has ever heard Eames sound.  
   
"Yes, actually. You go wherever money goes, but you don't have loyalty to anyone but yourself. A partner doesn't fit your scheme." The words are unnecessarily harsh, and Arthur knows it, but he can't handle this sudden openness from Eames in the middle of frigging Heathrow airport with only bad coffee and a power-nap under his belt.  
   
For a moment, he thinks Eames is about to hang up. Then Eames clears his throat. A burst of static accompanies it through the line. "Don't assume to know where my loyalties lie, Arthur," he says, voice mild and gliding over the syllables smooth. "You don't know the half of it." The simple statement jerks the rug out from under a carefully pieced together picture Arthur has of Eames and he feels like flailing.  
   
"Eames – "  
   
"I hear you have a job offer. I called to let you know I'm in."  
   
"This doesn't require – "  
   
"I'm in. I'll meet you in Helsinki."  
   
"How the hell – "  
   
The line goes dead.  
 

***

   
Another city, another airport. When Arthur turns his phone back on as he makes it to Helsinki, there is no message from Eames. Ever since the phone call, Arthur's mind has been running in a hamster wheel, trying to deduce just how Eames knew. As an after-effect, he hasn't had any sleep on the plane, and is running on less than three hours in the past two days.  
   
He cranes his neck when he gets out of the security area and into the airport's terminal 2, finds – no Starbucks. That's a surprise, since there is always a Starbucks. He tips his hat to the Finns for resisting the company's corporate raider approach and walks over to the inviting smell of freshly brewed coffee wafting from an elegant-looking café called Alvar A. The name of the famous Finnish architect is what made him choose the café as a drop for the additional information the client promised. He also needs a jolt of caffeine if he wants to be at least partly conscious for the rest of the day. Damn, but he hates being this tired when it comes to business. It's unprofessional. It's dangerous.  
   
The café, from what Arthur read online, was designed in cooperation with famous Finnish designers. The sales counter imitates the contours of the famous Savoy vase by Alvar Aalto, the furniture comprises classically elegant chairs, abstract paintings adorn the walls, and the light is subdued and pleasant. Everything has clear, clean, elegant lines that, in combination with the warm colours, relax both the eye and the mind. Ariadne could tell him all about this interior, Arthur thinks, probably right down to the year everything was designed. He wonders if she'll stop by here on her way to Seinäjoki too. Realistically, though, she's not the type to feel comfortable by herself in a place like this, with its starched table linens and overly polite waiters. He imagines her outside of one of the smaller cafés instead, nursing coffee from a paper cup, trying not to nod off over a book. He realises that he looks forward to seeing her again, despite the jolt of uneasiness Eames' call has left with him.  
   
Arthur orders straight-up double espresso instead of the local _kahvi_ and sits in a corner with the _Times_ spread out over the table. He fights to stay awake over the business section until a shadow falls over the paper, obscuring the small print.  
   
"Do you have any idea how bloody difficult it is to get proper tea here?"  
   
Arthur hides a flinch and wonders how the _fuck_ he missed Eames approaching him.  
   
"My heart breaks for you," he says without looking up. It's not a good idea for them to be seen together.  
   
Arthur's cup disappears from the table into Eames' hand. He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest and looks up at Eames, who pulls a face and sets the cup down again.  
   
"Disgusting." The word is heartfelt.  
   
Arthur uncrosses his arms, makes a grand gesture toward the empty chair. It's too late now, anyway. If anybody's watching them, they know by now that Eames and he are acquainted. "By all means, Eames, be my guest."  
   
Eames peers at the paper. "Davey running the country into the ground?"  
   
"He's been Prime Minister since May," Arthur points out. "Hardly enough time for that."  
   
"You can do," Eames steals a cookie from Arthur's saucer, chews and grins as Arthur rolls his eyes, "a lot more with a lot less time." The smile he gives doesn't reach his eyes.  
   
Arthur scrubs a hand over his face to hide how uneasy Eames' vague hints make him. He resolves to do some more digging on Eames' background when he has the time. Right now, he's waiting for a call, though, and forces the niggling concern from his mind. This early in the morning, the café is packed with travellers enjoying breakfast.  
   
Eames gestures for the waitress, who walks past with her arms full of dishes.  
   
"Hetki pieni," she calls out, sounding apologetic.  
   
Eames calls something after her in what to Arthur is nothing but a jumble of vowels. He blinks. "What the hell was that?"  
   
"I ordered a cup of tea," Eames explains. "Not that it'll be any good."  
   
Arthur narrows his eyes. "In fluent Finnish."  
   
Eames shrugs and beams an insolent grin. "My good looks are just one of my many talents."  
   
Arthur wants to reply, but before he gets the chance, the waitress is back with a cup and a Bauhaus-style small glass teapot in her hand. She bends forward to set it in front of Eames just as a patron walks past and jostles into her. The pot tips and spills its hot contents over the newspaper. Arthur just barely has enough time to pull his hands away to avoid a scalding.  
   
The teapot clinks as she sets it down on the table, hard. "Anteeksi!" The waitress, a woman in her mid-twenties with short blond hair that frames a face with strong cheekbones, looks horrified. "Excuse me," she switches from Finnish to English, "I'm so sorry, let me clean this up." She dabs at the newspaper with a towel, realises that it's a lost cause and pulls it away from Arthur who has scooted his chair away from the table. There are tea stains on the crisp white table cloth.  
   
"Please," she says. A blush stains her cheeks and sets off her big, watery eyes and pale lips. Arthur can't help catalogue her features and sees Eames doing the same, probably looking for a new forge. "I apologise. Let me get you another table."  
   
Arthur shakes his head. "Don't worry about it." He checks his wristwatch. "I have a plane to catch, anyway. Just get me the check."  
   
She nods and turns away with his paper bunched in her hands.  
   
Eames watches them both with a raised eyebrow but says nothing until the waitress has left.  
   
"Remarkably clumsy for someone working at a place like this, don't you think?"  
   
"You didn't really want the tea, anyway."  
   
"Mmh," Eames answers.  
   
The waitress returns with the check and a new copy of the _Times_ , "For your inconvenience." The copy is thicker than it should be. Arthur rests his hand on it as he thanks the waitress and feels the bump of what is likely a flash-drive.  
   
Eames looks at the paper thoughtfully while Arthur pays. He doesn't say anything.  
   
When they get up to leave, Eames bends close to Arthur and murmurs, "Very cloak and dagger."  
   
Arthur straightens his shoulders and ignores the comment. The flash-drive burns in the palm of his hand.  
   
"Don't get a seat next to me on the plane," he says to Eames as they walk toward their gate.  
   
Eames rolls his eyes. "At least give me your paper, then, if you must deprive me of your cheerful self."  
   
Arthur slaps the _Times_ into Eames' open palm and gets out his passport. 


	2. Finland

Eames disappears from the airport as soon as they land. "Be prepared!" is his parting shot after he has demanded the credit card for one of the bank accounts which Arthur set up for this operation with a sardonic, "Just in case, old boy", Arthur has the unsettling feeling that he just left the house open for burglars to throw a party, but decides not to worry about it. He can still have the transactions cancelled should Eames use the card to buy his way into the nearest casino.  
   
Arthur double checks with the paperhanger about the state of Ariadne's and his false IDs and, almost on an afterthought, asks him to provide Eames with another false ID as well. After all, if they have to run, it will be better to have Eames on board than to worry about him leaking information to anyone. Arthur won't repeat the experience with Nash, even though he doesn't think Eames would rat him out. He doesn't know enough about Eames to be sure, though, and his trust only goes so far.  
   
After a short conversation, he finds out that, due to the extra work of making Eames' ID, the paperhanger will have the IDs messengered to the hotel Arthur booked instead of having Arthur picking them all up. One less thing to worry about. Arthur's paying him well enough that he doesn't worry about a discreet delivery.  
   
He picks up the arms next, a sleek Glock 17, a H&K USP, a Beretta 92 FS, ammunition, a couple of knives, and three tasers. He's learned to defend himself and accept the consequences, but if push comes to shove, he'd rather not have Ariadne kill someone this early in the game. The taser treatment will give her enough to fret about anyway. Arthur has been on the receiving end once after a butchered job and can still feel his teeth rattling in his skull.  
   
It's two in the afternoon by the time he finally makes it to the hotel, sweaty and hungry, but by then, he's so tired he barely takes in his surroundings. He orders room service to be delivered in an hour, accepts the key card, walks to the suite with his shoulders squared and crashes on the couch as soon as he's closed the door behind him. The case containing the PASIV sits next to the desk, having been couriered in earlier.  
   
A fifteen minute power-nap is all he allows himself before he peels out of his suit and takes a shower. He expects Ariadne around four and still needs to check up on exit flights and berths on a boat, maybe bus and train tickets as well before everything is in full swing and he won't have the time for it. Eames would call him anal retentive and paranoid, he's sure, but Arthur prefers to have more than one exit strategy.  
   
He holds his face under the water's hot spray and hopes Ariadne's flight was smooth. He really, really hopes Eames doesn't do anything stupid with that credit card. Once again, he stays under the shower a lot longer than he should, but he enjoys the steady pounding of the water, the white noise that blanks out his thoughts after a while.  
   
Arthur turns off the water when he hears a knock on the door. "Room service!" an accented female voice calls.  
   
"Leave it at the door, I'll pick it up in a minute."  
   
Arthur opens the shower door and slips into the complimentary white bathrobe, pads barefoot to the door. His stomach rumbles loudly.  
   
When he opens the door to pick up the tray, he sees a pair of surprisingly well-polished shoes in black and tan leather next to the tray. Familiar shoes. Arthur rolls his eyes. Of course.  
   
"Great look," Eames says, grinning at the robe and walking into the room without invitation. He sets the tray on the polished wooden table and throws himself into one of the upholstered chairs. "You should wear white more often. It compliments your complexion. Especially with that dashing stubble on your chin."  
   
Arthur swipes some wet hair out of his face, then crosses his arms over his chest. "Get out, Eames."  
   
He knows his protest isn't going to have any effect whatsoever and he has to admit that he's glad he didn't have to search for Eames. On the other hand, Eames always finds him, whether he wants Eames to or not. Arthur doesn't even remember giving Eames the address of this hotel. Yet here he is. Like a bad penny. Or like that old children's song. Arthur fights down a grin, then retreats to the bathroom to shave and get dressed.  
   
As he's applying shaving cream, he finds himself humming, _'The cat came back, the very next day. The cat came back, he just wouldn't stay away...'_  
 

***

   
The hotel Arthur chose for himself is one of the nicest in the city. Secluded, just outside of Seinäjoki, it blends in with the forest around it and overlooks a small lake. The rooms and the lobby are spacious and modern without being over-styled, while the in-hotel restaurant offers a small but eclectic range of creative cooking. Eames doesn't envy Arthur for this place, he had enough opportunities to switch the reservation Arthur made for him and book himself into one of the nicer hotels around too, but he prefers the smaller ones anyway.  
   
The suite's – yes, the room is not just a room but a suite, bloody hedonist – sitting room is bright and sparsely furnished in the clean-lined style that Arthur seems to prefer. It's a good front, though, Eames knows. He's seen one of Arthur's hidden flats and he knows that Arthur's private style is different. Less clean-cut. Much more messy. Lived in. Comfortable. It's very much at odds with his professional persona.  
   
Eames has come to admire Arthur's dedication to detail, his knack for not just having a plan A, but plans B through E all thought-out and prepared even before a job kicks off. Maybe it's because of this usually so very well orchestrated planning and researching that Eames is surprised Arthur seems to know so little. Eames has already looked through Arthur's case-notes while the other man is still shaving and humming under his breath. Eames fights a smile despite himself; Arthur being comfortable enough to hum around him is a first. It's that level of comfortableness that makes Eames uncomfortable, though. His sources have intimated that the easy job Arthur had outlined to him earlier could be anything but. There is an oblique hint at someone much more powerful in the background, pulling the strings.  
   
Arthur doesn't know who his clients are, only knows that they came through Saito. There has been a face-to-face meeting in London, that much Eames knows, but everything about that meeting screams fake. Eames knows that before, it was always Dom who found the jobs for their team, and say what you want about Dominic Cobb, his spidey-sense is impeccable. Eames can't fathom why Arthur, of all people, wouldn't dig deeper, didn't smell the rat. His explanation had been easy enough, and on the surface, yes, it did sound reasonable, but Eames has been in the business too long to mistrust his instincts. That's all they are for now. Instincts. But he's never had them fool him before, so he won't start mistrusting them now. And if trusting his instincts means making sure Arthur doesn't walk into a trap? All the same. It'll just have to be a subtle set-up, since Eames knows Arthur won't let Eames stop him from going through with this job because of a hunch Eames has.  
   
The door to the bathroom opens. "Get out, Eames," Arthur says for the third time since Eames arrived. He doesn't seem surprised, though, that Eames hasn't moved since Arthur disappeared to get dressed – a shame if you ask Eames. He was rather fond of the bare feet.  
   
"Oh, Arthur, come on." Eames settles more comfortably into the chair facing the window, the door firmly at his back, out of the line of sight of whoever might walk in the door. "You have the better mini-bar here, don't be selfish." He leans back over the file on their mark, a Finnish native called Saarela, flipping through a set of 10x8 pictures from his workspace. The co-worker popping into Saarela's office several times looks promising. He'll have to scout some video to get the mannerisms down, maybe trail him for a day. It won't be a hard forge.  
   
"Eames, I – "  
   
There's a knock on the door and Arthur falls silent.  
   
The door to the suite opens without the person knocking waiting for an answer and the first thing Eames notices before he even raises his head is a scent that is carried in on the breeze. Floral, light, cutting through the clean carpet smell of the hotel suite. A spring flower. Freesia.  
   
He knows that smell, knows the woman whose skin he last smelled it on. His stomach bottoms out. Arthur wouldn't. Not into this. He _can't_ have.  
   
When he does raise his head, Ariadne has stopped in the door to survey her surroundings and likely to get her eyes adjusted to the brighter room after coming in from the ambient-lit hallway outside. Sunlight bathes her face, shows her biting her lip. Her posture screams uneasiness and it hits Eames suddenly just how small she is.  
   
 _'What the fuck, Arthur.'_ Eames wants to yell at him. _'What the_ fuck _made you bring her here?'_ It's even worse to know she's here when Arthur's not even aware of the danger and Eames isn't clear on what the hell the danger really is. He wants to punch Arthur. He wants to put Ariadne on the next plane home.  
   
She visibly shakes herself, walks in, closes the door behind her. "Good afternoon," she says. It sounds stiff and rehearsed, as though she's fighting what's really on the tip of her tongue.  
   
"Ariadne," Arthur greets her, formal. Judging from this, she and Arthur haven't seen each other since she arrived.  
   
She hasn't looked in Eames' direction yet and he’s glad for the moment of respite to get his game face back into place. ' _Does Arthur have any idea?'_ he wonders. _'Does she?'_  
   
Arthur and Ariadne shake hands, still stilted and despite his moment of shock, Eames can't fight the huff of amused annoyance. They've shared dreams, for Christ's sake. There's no room for awkwardness.  
   
"Bloody hell, you two," he utters. He takes the quick couple of steps to cross the sitting room and lifts Ariadne bodily off her feet to crush her into a deliberately exuberant hug. Attack’s the best defence for now. "Dream of my sleepless nights!" he exclaims.  
   
"Eames!" It's a squeaked mixture between joy and shock. He spins her until she hits his shoulders, breathes in the Freesia-smell of her hair, feels the press of her small breasts against his chest. The latter is stupidly enough startling, as though she turned from a prodigy he liked well enough during the Fischer job to an actual woman since he last saw her. Her hair is soft against his face, just like her skin is soft where her shirt has ridden up. It's distracting. "Put me down, you brute," she laughs.  
   
From the corners of his eyes, Eames sees Arthur's mouth quirk up.  
   
Ariadne straightens her shirt when Eames sets her down and gives Arthur a glare that is made ineffective by the pronounced twinkle in her eyes. "Why didn't you tell me Eames'd be here?"  
   
Eames meets Arthur's gaze, raises a brow. _Yes, Arthur. Why didn’t you tell either of us the other would be here?_  
   
"He… was persistent."  
   
"Like a true friend," Eames supplies with a grin that Arthur, who has known him longer, will know is fake. They're holding a conversation between the lines now. One that consists of silent accusations and justifications Eames wants to have aloud as soon as he has a moment alone with Arthur.  
   
Arthur rolls his eyes. "Like a cat with catnip."  
   
"So you have figured out by now that I can't be blamed with this attraction, darling?" The back and forth is forced, but they’re good enough to make it sound normal. Eames balls his hands into fists at his sides to keep from clocking Arthur one.  
   
Ariadne clears her throat before Arthur can volley back at Eames. "If you two want to get a room, I can always come back later," she says with a face so perfectly straight yet eyes so perfectly full of mischief that Eames barks a surprised but heartfelt laugh. He realises he's missed her.  
   
"We already have one, pet," he says and indicates the hotel suite with a flourish. "Comes with a well-stocked mini-bar and a private sauna. And you can share. Free love for all."  
   
Ariadne grins and raises both hands. "TMI, boys," she says. The grin turns into a real smile, one that makes Eames want to hit Arthur all the harder for bringing her in while it tugs at his heart at the same time. "I know this sounds insane, but I missed you."  
   
"Well, we don't hire the best architect out there for just any job, now do we, Arthur?" Eames swivels around and pins Arthur with a hard glare.  
   
Remarkably, Arthur's posture doesn't tense further and Eames wonders if he's even aware. "Exactly," he says.  
   
Ariadne has started to wander through the suite and runs her hands over the clean geometrical lines of the furniture. "How come you get such a nice hotel?"  
   
"We need to be spread out," Arthur explains. "First rule of the business is that you don't stay in the same hotels together for a job. Too easy to connect the dots."  
   
It's something they both learned the hard way early on. If she doesn't know, it's all the more reason to rip Arthur a new one over bringing her here.  
   
"So you get Finland's version of a Ritz and I get a youth hostel?" The slant of Ariadne's mouth shows that she's beyond thrilled, and it shouldn't amuse Eames as much as it does. She already hadn't taken any crap from Dom, she's not going to take any from Arthur. Maybe there is hope for this op after all. Ariadne is nothing if not quick on the uptake. "Where did you stick Eames, then? In a broom cupboard, to match your dysfunctional relationship?"  
   
"Making me the Potter to his Uncle Vernon?" Eames quips without thinking.  
   
Her reaction is remarkable. Ariadne gapes , looks from him to Arthur and back, then her lower lip quivers. He sees her bite it, but it doesn't help. After a minute of struggling, she begins to chuckle, chuckles which turn to loud and whinnying laughter when Eames blows air into his cheeks. It's such a weird, contagious sound that Eames can't help but grin, and, god help him, even Arthur's mouth seems to twitch. It makes him more human and Eames feels some of his anger seeping away. Maybe it really was a good idea to get Ariadne in on this. It never hurts to have a fresh perspective, and, remembering the Fischer job, Eames agrees that he has never worked with anyone better.  
   
"Careful, Ariadne," Eames warns. "You might make him laugh and I really don't know if he'd survive."  
   
"Once you're done, how about we talk about why we're here?"  
 

***

   
According to the file the client has sent Arthur, Ari-Pekka Saarela is a class-A nerd. His whole appearance is so comic-book perfect that it's downright boring to cross-reference the almost too-detailed information the client gave them on him. The file is thorough and well-researched, though strangely condescending in tone. The clients have dug up past and present, everything from shoe-size to former bullies at school, found out about employers and people Saarela pissed off, about hacking Nokia's secret database when the kid was in High School and landing one of the top-notch positions in the current company afterward. They'd hired him straight out of school. That'd been ten years ago.  
   
At twenty-six, Saarela still wears huge glasses and ill-fitting shirts, dirty white trainers mismatched with his washed-out black jeans with the shiny spots over the knees. His only concession to being an adult is wearing striped ties that clash horribly with his chequered shirt. Eames sees Arthur glide his hand down his tie as he looks at Saarela's picture on his laptop. He probably thanks god for small mercies and good taste.  
   
If he needed to impersonate Saarela, Eames would have a field day. He likes the underdogs, their quirks and shortcomings, they're so much more interesting than the clean-cut business people he usually deals with, the ones that fall easily once Eames forges himself into a busty, aloof blonde. Despite what the file hints at, Eames thinks that he might like a guy like Saarela. He'll file away his looks for later.  
   
He's a bit disappointed that he doesn't need to forge into Saarela. On this op, Eames will just be distraction, background noise while Arthur does the extraction of the secret Saarela's keeping. Ariadne will design the dream and watch over them while they go under. In and out, easy as pie.  
   
Only, it never is, is it? He hasn't forgotten what Suzanne – Suz, the one who had stayed behind when Eames had been long gone but who still had a soft spot for him – told him when he called her earlier and it makes him uncomfortable. _'These clients are not who they pretend to be, Eames. They're not corporate. Watch out.'_  
   
For the moment, he decides to shake the uneasy feeling that creeps up in him over this being too easy, too clean. Maybe Suz is just being paranoid. It does go with the territory.  
   
It's always easy to distract himself by needling Arthur.  
   
"Admiring the sequel to Bad Taste?" Eames asks as he looks over Arthur's shoulder at the pictures of their mark.  
   
Eames sees Arthur fight the urge to quirk his lips but Eames already knows that he does indeed amuse Arthur more often than not. It's a good, comfortable knowledge. "It's called work, Eames," Arthur says. "You should try it sometimes."  
   
"I love it when you get all stern with me, Arthur," Eames says huskily against Arthur's ear, feels the slight tremor that runs through Arthur's body in response but leaves it at that and sits down over his copy of the Saarela file.  
   
"Can we go over the plan?" Ariadne asks when she sets down the file. Her voice is steady, Eames notices, the awkwardness of half an hour ago gone from it. The months since he last saw her have been good to her. She's grown even more confident, as though she finally made herself at home in her own skin. She knows her value.  
   
Arthur has given her the file to read and get an idea about Saarela. They have a basic idea for a layout, but in the end, she's the architect and she decides.  
   
"Doubts?" Arthur asks.  
   
"I just want to check if Eames has read the files," she says with a shrug. The only thing that betrays her nerves is a tic – she's twiddling the edge of her scarf around her index finger. Back and forth. Back and forth. It's strangely hypnotising.  
   
Eames sits up a little more straight in his chair. "You mean I wasn't supposed to surf the internet for porn?" He shoots her a mock-discomfited look. "Damn it, woman. Could have tipped me off earlier."  
   
Arthur bites back on a grin. Ariadne flips him the bird. Eames blows her a kiss.  
   
"Let's hear it from you, then, Ariadne," Arthur cuts in before Ariadne can throw the little paper ball she just formed at Eames' head. "From the beginning."  
   
"Ari-Pekka Saarela," Ariadne starts, and damn, her voice has the same lyrical calm as Dom's had, "is brilliant but awkward."  
 

***

   
The world of corporate espionage is a simple one. It's always about some secret or another that needs to be extracted from a subject, it pays outrageously well, and the moral qualms – which Eames, contrary to popular belief, does allow himself – are few. He doesn't care which company wins the race for bigger and better inventions, which company makes money or loses it, as long as it doesn't have any impact on third world countries. After all, he was in Mombasa for a reason when Cobb found him – it had been one of the jobs where he had cared which side won.  
   
This job Arthur has arranged, however… Eames doesn't like it. Doesn't like the bits and pieces of information he salvaged from channels that really should have dried up for him years ago. Doesn't like that those channels are currently providing a trickle of intel, worries over why now. The pieces form a picture that's unpleasant and shouts _government_ and Eames has the nasty feeling that Arthur, meticulous, planning Arthur, doesn't have a clue.  
   
They're sitting in the hotel's lobby. Arthur has ordered an espresso and downs it as soon as it arrives. The warm smell of coffee is heavy in the air. Arthur sets the cup down and picks up his notebook again, starts to scribble in a furious small hand.  
   
Ariadne has excused herself to nip to the loo and they're alone in the bright and airy lobby, lounging in the cream-coloured leather couches. Eames looks out the window and clenches his hand around the armrest, feels the leather give and his nails sink in to leave marks against it that won't fade for a while. Why the hell did Arthur have to bring Ariadne into this as well?  
   
The cup jingles against the saucer. The table vibrates and Eames realises that he's pumping his leg up and down, up and down, in fast, impatient moves. He's trained himself out of these nervous tics years ago. Leave it to bloody Arthur to bring them back full force. Then again, he always has been able to get under Eames' skin.  
   
He consciously puts a stop to it, laces his fingers on his knees and leans forward to give Arthur's bowed head a hard stare. "It's a bad idea," he says, trying hard to keep his tone level and pleasant. He doesn't need Arthur's surprised gaze – due to the tilt of his head the gaze comes from under lowered lashes, and _fuck_ , he's supposed to focus, isn't he? – to notice he failed.  
   
"Too late now," Arthur replies. "She's already in." He puts the pen between the pages and snaps the elastic band around the notebook to close it. "Besides, wouldn't you rather she worked with us than with somebody else?"  
   
Eames wonders if Arthur used the same reasoning on himself, because, damn, it's effective. It's also not at all what Eames was talking about, but he doesn't have a chance to voice his real concern. Ariadne walks back in the lobby and Eames is struck again how she moves like a tomboy. His background check on her showed that she has two older brothers, and yeah, that fits. The baby of the family, but not a spoilt princess. She wears boots, not ballerinas. The tips are scuffed, the heels dusty.  
   
The couch dips when she flops down next to him, close enough so he can feel the warmth from her leg where it's pressed against his. Her _kahvi_ arrives – she enjoys buying local foods, she said earlier – and she welcomes it with a smile that lights up her face. She looks bright and real, the counterpoint to Arthur's dark and broody, and Eames realises that, yes, he doesn't want her to work with anyone besides them.  
   
He'll just have to look out for them both now.  
 

***

   
Ariadne has retreated to her hostel, Eames has disappeared to god only knows where, and it's _that_ which makes Arthur more nervous than anything else.  
   
His eyes hurt; the dull ache he knows is caused by sleep deprivation is more pronounced when he thinks about Eames and his behaviour earlier.  
   
Had that been a warning? But a warning about what? What does Eames know? Arthur's sure it's a hell of a lot more than he lets on and it's _that_ more than anything which stops Arthur from relaxing, from sleeping.  
   
He takes off his shirt and drops on the bed, arms stretched out, breathes slow and even, with his eyes closed. He's weary enough it makes him nauseous, but his brain rattles on, it won't shut down.  
   
After trying progressive muscle relaxation for ten minutes with his mind wandering and his muscles tensing without untensing, he gives up.  
   
He rolls to his stomach with a groan and looks out the window. Without support from his hands, it puts his neck in a crick, but he ignores the twinge. It's past one in the morning but still bright out. No sunshine, but still bright as daylight. Stupid Finnish midnight sun.  
   
For a little while, Arthur's tempted to give in and research Eames, dig into his past and find out everything he's hiding, everything Arthur's trusted Dom to know before.  
   
The sheet bunches in his hand as he remembers. "I know him," Dom had said. It had been an unspoken, "Trust me." Which had held an even more unspoken, "Don't poke, don't research, don't suspect him." But after everything that happened on the Fischer job, Arthur's not so sure anymore that trust in Dom is still warranted, never mind Eames himself.  
   
He's just buried his face in the starched bedsheets when his phone rings.  
   
"Can't sleep either?" Eames' voice comes from the speakers.  
   
Arthur thumps his head against the mattress twice before he says, "What do you want this time, Eames?"  
   
"Can't I call to sing you a lullaby?" Eames sounds amused, his voice low, and something settles in Arthur's stomach, warm and live.  
   
"Since when do you sing?"  
   
"Since you play the guitar."  
   
Which is since Arthur's nine and how the hell does Eames –  
   
"Stop thinking, dear, Dom told me." The amusement in Eames' voice is pronounced now. "You worry too much, Arthur." Arthur doesn't think he worries _enough_. "You should get some sleep."  
   
Arthur rolls to his back and stares at the ceiling while expelling a breath. "And you calling me at one in the morning is conductive to that exactly how?"  
   
"Hypnotherapy."  
   
"Meaning the sound of your voice is supposed to put me to sleep?" It's Arthur's turn to sound amused now.  
   
There's a short pause on the line and a grin spreads over Arthur's face; clearly, Eames hadn't thought his statement though.  
   
"We'll use a safe-word to wake you again."  
   
Arthur's mind veers sharply into inappropriate territory and Eames, the bastard, catches the pause and laughs.  
   
"Hiding preferences, love?"  
   
"Fuck you, Eames." Arthur disconnects the call and throws the phone on the far side of the bed, just shy of making it skid off to the floor.  
   
It rings again about a minute later and Arthur picks it up without even looking at the screen. "Eames, keep your dirty fantasies to yourself, you little – "  
   
"Ah, hi, Arthur," Ariadne's voice interrupts him, equal measures confused and amused.  
   
Arthur doesn't flush. But he does ask himself why everyone thinks it's okay to call him at one in the morning. Or rather, half past one now.  
   
"Ariadne," he says, trying for a level tone. "What's with the late call?"  
   
"Did I interrupt something?" she asks and hell if he can't see the dimples in her grin all the way from her room to his, half a city away.  
   
"What did you want?" he asks, ignoring the bait.  
   
She huffs, clearly a little disappointed over not getting a rise out of him. "I thought I'd make you suffer with me."  
   
"Suffer?"  
   
A door squeaks in the background, Ariadne's voice drops to a whisper. "The hostel you chose for me."  
   
He scratches his stomach, gets into a more comfortable position on the bed. "What about it?"  
   
"Do you have any idea how much an English college student drunk on Finnish vodka snores?"  
   
Arthur can't help the snort of laughter that escapes him at her indignant tone. They talk for half an hour after this and Arthur realises that he missed her.  
   
When he hangs up at around two in the morning, it's still light out, and he resigns himself to not getting any sleep. His phone signals an incoming text message from Eames. "Don't let the bed bugs bite."  
   
In spite of himself, a tired smile lifts the corners of Arthur's mouth.  
   
Eventually, after another half hour of tossing and turning, he gets up and goes over the case files again. No bed bugs for him tonight.  
 

***

   
Things blow up a lot faster than Eames expected. Arthur's been tense ever since Eames called him in London, and none of that tightly coiled tension has left him. Eames wonders if Arthur went to sleep at all after they bid their goodbyes last night. Arthur's egging Ariadne on since they met this morning, urging her to work faster, not spend too much thought on detail. Ariadne loves her details, though, loves working on the architecture of the dream, and Eames knows that this is the first time she's done it in months. It's only natural that she wants to indulge herself a little. If it were up to him, he'd let her, but Arthur's right, they're on a clock. Of course, Eames has found that being diplomatic works a lot better than using blunt force.  
   
He's just coming out of Arthur's bathroom, his hands smelling of the strong complimentary soap when he hears an argument in full swing. Eames fights the urge to roll his eyes.  
   
"All we need to do is get the location of the program he's written." Arthur speaks slowly, he's explaining it to Ariadne in a manner that rubs even Eames wrong. "Not the program. Just the location." He indicates her sketches. "Don't overcomplicate things. We don't need pretty. We need functional."  
   
Ariadne throws her pencil on the table. "There is such a thing as professional honour. You're familiar with that, right?"  
   
"While I appreciate the sarcasm," Arthur says without batting an eyelash, "there is such a thing as getting a job done on time. You're familiar with _that_ , right?"  
   
Eames looks back and forth between them, surprised that this escalated as quickly and as early as it did, while at the same time fascinated by how much tension besides the obvious fight there is in the room. The air between Arthur and Ariadne crackles. He's pretty sure they'd both shoot him should he point out the obvious, though, so instead, playing peacemaker it is. "What Mr. Charming here is trying to say," he intercedes, "is that sometimes, we have to work fast and we don't have the luxury of a month-long prep like we had on the Fischer job."  
   
"I know how to work under a deadline," Ariadne snaps, her chin lifted in defiance. She takes a breath when he raises an eyebrow at her, wordlessly stating that he's not the enemy. "I just like my deadlines realistic. And I want to know what it is we're trying to extract."  
   
Eames sees that Arthur's hackles are up. He knows that Arthur doesn't have any additional information about the secret they're hired to extract and that he doesn't inquire for a reason. As long as they don't know, they can't be tied to the client later, and the client won't have a reason to eliminate them should they find out too much. It's self-preservation, not secrecy, and it would be so much easier if Arthur would just expl –  
   
"We all wish for the impossible sometimes," Arthur snaps at Ariadne.  
   
Eames fights a sigh. Smooth, Arthur. Real smooth.  
   
"That we do," Eames says and puts himself between Arthur and Ariadne before they can tear at each other's throats. "Take me trying to get into Arthur's pants for example."  
   
The distraction works. Ariadne's face brightens in a surprised grin. Eames steps back then, feeling the tension dissipate slowly.  
   
Arthur twitches an eyebrow. It's amused, not annoyed. "Yet he never gives up trying."  
   
Ariadne laughs, finally. It breaks the ice and the tension, even around Arthur. "Okay, then. Get out of here, so I can work a minor miracle."  
   
"What about the big one?" Eames asks, honestly curious.  
   
Ariadne snorts as she reaches for a pencil. "I'm not helping you get into Arthur' pants. Not on top of this job and definitely not for the wage I was offered."  
   
Eames raises an eyebrow at Arthur. "I thought she was an architect, not a business shark."  
   
Arthur shrugs. "Her mother is a lawyer. The shark gene runs in the family."  
   
Eames laughs at the unexpected flash of Arthur's sense of humour.  
   
"I heard that," Ariadne says without looking up from her sketchpad – but there's a smile in her voice. Eames notices that she's not surprised by Arthur knowing about her mother's occupation and also doesn't deny the accusation. Interesting. "Now get out."  
 

***

   
Ariadne walks into the hotel's gym without bothering to knock but stops in her tracks, the words stilled on her tongue for a few moments. She's never liked gyms. Too many egos in too small a space. The spacious room smells of cleaning products and fresh sweat. Another reason to prefer outside activities, but here there are only two egos, who butt heads on a regular basis anyway.  
   
Arthur, wearing black, close-fitting work-out clothes is doing pull-ups with his back to her, which gives her a chance to admire the view. Long pants. Of course. The heavens are not smiling on her enough to give her Arthur in shorts. His hair is looser than normal, though, the veins on his arms stand out. He looks lithe and in shape, not an ounce of flab on that body.  
   
From the corner of her eye, she sees Eames on the weight bench. Eames is in washed-out grey shorts and a dark shirt. The shirt is darkened by sweat. He holds the weights suspended and displays some impressive biceps. She sees a glimpse of a tattoo where his sleeve rides up. Huh. Ariadne purses her lips. Well, looks like at least someone up there is willing to grant her some fun. He catches her gaze, grins, directing her attention to Arthur's ass and winks. Ariadne rolls her eyes and throws the menu she's holding so it comes to rest on Eames' stomach. "Okay, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving."  
   
Eames rests the weights into their stand with a clank. Behind her, Arthur lets go of the high bar and lands on the ground with barely a noise. "It's in English," Ariadne continues, "though pretty much babelfished." She turns to Arthur and motions toward Eames who's already studying the menu with some amusement. "Just pick something, it's on me."  
   
Arthur wipes a hand over his upper lip and Ariadne tells herself she's not distracted. "You're – "  
   
"Getting take-out, yes," she hands him a water bottle from the small table by the door.  
   
"There's a restaurant here," Arthur states.  
   
Ariadne shrugs. "Sure, but I feel like Indian, not like hotel food. So, pick something, I'll see about a cab getting me back from there in the meantime."  
   
"You want to walk?" Arthur frowns. To her right, she sees Eames look up from the menu. "Why don't you just order in?"  
   
"For one, they don't deliver, and secondly," she runs a hand through her hair and twists it into a ponytail, "I need to get out of here for a while, get some fresh air. My head is pounding." She sees the frown deepen and gives him a placating smile. "It's just a little over two miles."  
   
"All right, give me a few minutes and I'll – " Arthur makes to move, but Ariadne stops him with a hand to his chest. Her hand is small against the black of his shirt. The shirt is slightly damp and she feels the heat from his skin, along with the even beat of his heart. "I'm a big girl, Arthur. I think I can take a walk by myself."  
   
"I'm sure you can, but – "  
   
"Give her a break, Arthur," Eames stops him as well. "You heard the lady." Eames throws the menu at Arthur. "Make yourself useful and pick a dish. I know you hardly eat, but I don't want to starve to death after this work out and I'm not letting you either."  
   
Arthur flips him the bird, mutters something under his breath, but unclips the pen from the menu and quickly ticks something. He hands the sheet of paper to Ariadne. "Better be quick then, before you cause imminent death by starvation."  
   
"Make sure you've showered when I'm back," she says as she turns to leave.  
   
"I think she just insulted us," Eames muses. He looks to Arthur. "Did she insult us?"  
   
Something flashes over Arthur's face and before Ariadne can do so much as blink, he has taken off his shirt and thrown it at her. The damp material hits her head.  
   
"You're disgusting!" she shrieks, throws it back and wonders if he has a younger sister or brother. This behaviour reminds her of her older brother so much that she's contemplating the idea of all older brothers going to the same school. The school of how to best annoy your siblings. Though, looking at a shirtless Arthur right next to a dishevelled and sweaty Eames, she scraps the sibling idea quickly. Ariadne turns to leave before her ogling and the sudden flush in her cheeks becomes too obvious.  
   
"What, are you not turned on by our manly musk?" Eames calls after her, laughter in his voice.  
   
She turns back, looks them both up and down and then says, "Shower. Or no food."  
   
"Such a slave-driver."  
   
"Shower!" is her parting shot before she closes the gym's door from the outside. The last sight she catches is Eames' smile slipping from his lips and his gaze gliding down Arthur's naked back to where his sweat-pants are riding low on his hips. It doesn't make her mouth dry. Doesn't.  
 

***

   
She comes back an hour later, with heavy plastic bags that bite into her fingers. The Roti is still warm in the bag that's closest to her leg.  
   
"Oh, you sight for sore eyes," Eames exclaims and moves some of the paperwork to the floor to make room on the table. He's dressed in the clothes he wore before the work-out, but looks scrubbed clean, his hair still damp.  
   
"Do you mind?" Arthur snaps and holds on to the print-outs he'd been bent over when Ariadne entered the room.  
   
"Arthur." Eames crouches next to him. His tone is that of an adult speaking to a very slow child. "There is a gorgeous woman here who has food," he says and Ariadne can't fight a grin over the way Eames manages to make even mocking sound silky. "Please get your priorities straight."  
   
Arthur leans back in his chair, tipping it back slightly. "So, by all means I should kick you out and enjoy dinner with said gorgeous woman alone?"  
   
Eames glances from Arthur to Ariadne and she can see that he's about to reply, so she beats him to it. "Said gorgeous woman is going to leave and take the food with her if you don't stop quibbling." She looks between them. "Do I need to do a sniff-test, by the way?"  
   
Eames moves, pulls her against him in a one-armed bear-hug. She's squished against his chest, hears the beat of his heart and catches a whiff of soap and skin. Damn, he smells nice. She breathes deep. "Close enough?" he chuckles against her ear.  
   
Ariadne tries to kick his shin and hears Arthur snort behind them. "Careful what you say around him."  
   
When Eames has let her go, she dumps the bags on the table, forcing down a blush and snapping her fingers. "Arthur, move. Eames, cutlery."  
   
"Ma'am, yes, ma'am!" Arthur mock-salutes. She hears the smile underneath it, though.  
   
As Ariadne opens the plastic bags, she realises that the cook at the take-out place has forgotten to label the foil-covered containers. She frowns, then shrugs.  
   
"Looks like it'll be a mystery meal, guys."  
   
Eames and Arthur set the table quickly with the meagre supplies they have. It's oddly domestic when she puts the containers in the centre of the table to put the finishing touch to their much-deserved dinner.  
   
"How very college," Arthur comments with a raised eyebrow.  
   
"I'll get a table at the local Ritz next time, honey," Ariadne answers with an eye-roll.  
   
They sit around the table then, pick at the Naan and the Roti, trying to figure out which dish is which. The scent of basmati and spices fills the hotel room.  
   
Finally, Eames just tries a spoonful from the nearest container with a shrug. He chews, swallows, then promptly turns red and starts to wheeze. "Who of you ordered a bloody Vindaloo?" He reaches for the mango lassi and drinks in huge gulps.  
   
Both Ariadne and Arthur raise a hand.  
   
"Bloody hell," Eames rasps. His eyes are watering.  
   
It's Arthur who cracks up first, the first genuinely amused smile Ariadne has seen on him in a few days. "Can't take the heat, Mr. Eames?"  
   
Ariadne chimes in, she has no qualms kicking someone already on the ground. Eames never really is, anyway. "So you were the one who wanted the Korma?" She hadn't seen which man had chosen which number on the menu, they had only been checked. She'd been so sure the Korma was Arthur's choice. She laughs. "Eames, you big _girl!_ "  
   
"I like my taste-buds intact, thank you very much." He pulls the container with the yellowish sauce toward him and dunks his spoon into it with a petulant gesture. "Now pass the Naan, Assassin."  
   
There is such contempt in his voice, the accent even more pronounced than usual, that it takes just one glimpse at the twitch of Arthur's mouth and she dissolves into giggles which turn into full-blown laughter when Arthur hands the bread to Eames with a mock-gentle, "Here you go, princess."  
   
Eames bunches the aluminium foil in front of him into a ball and throws it at Arthur's head. Arthur dodges it and turns to high-five Ariadne.  
   
"Wankers," Eames mutters darkly, which sends Arthur into a fit of laughter, too.  
   
Eventually, Eames quirks his lips up. It's hard not to at the sight of Arthur laughing, Ariadne agrees. He laughs beautifully.  
   
When the last giggles finally subside, Eames has an oddly gentle look on his face, one Ariadne doesn't recall ever having seen before. "You don't do that enough," he says.  
   
"Take a piss at you?" Arthur asks, his eyes still sparkling with mirth.  
   
"Laugh."  
 

***

   
Saarela orders pizza regularly and that's how they get in. Arthur taps Saarela's call to the pizza delivery place, picks up a random pizza and hands it to Eames to deliver it. Ariadne can't help but think that he looks ridiculous on the small moped. It's the one she'll leave on later.  
   
It's so easy to drizzle a refined, fast working version of a Mickey over the cheese. Arthur looks at his wristwatch when they wait on the staircase, and instinctively, Ariadne does so, too, counts the minutes trickling by. When three minutes are over, Arthur moves toward Saarela's door. As Eames sheds the delivery uniform and starts picking the lock with practised ease, Ariadne realises just how easy it is to trick people and to break into their lives. It's a thought she's not sure she likes.  
   
She pays the real pizza delivery guy when he arrives and takes one slice out of the clean box to swap the boxes later. Leave no trace.  
   
Saarela is knocked out on the dark leather couch when they tiptoe into the small living room. Arthur and Eames begin to set up the PASIV, which gives Ariadne time to look around and take in Saarela's apartment. It's not what she'd expected at all from the client's report, which had painted Saarela as a stereotypical, sorry nerd.  
   
What she finds instead is a clean, tidy apartment. A moderate size flatscreen TV, but more importantly, rows of books, all over the place, even on the floor. Hardware, too, and that does fit the picture, of course. An impressive DVD collection; she spots all the seasons of _Dr. Who_ and smiles. There are dismantled computers and cables that snake over the floor. An old gramophone. Records lie next to it; she makes out Sibelius as well as Astor Piazolla. There's a picture of an elderly couple on a sideboard – parents or grandparents. Ariadne suddenly feels like an intruder, a notion made worse by the knowledge that she won't join Arthur and Eames in the dream. She'll stay up here and watch them, alone in the apartment of a man who doesn't know what's happening to him, watching over three dreaming men. When she thought about it on the way to Finland, it sounded so much more glamorous than it really is now. It still bugs her, too, that she doesn't know exactly what it is they're trying to extract.  
   
During her meanderings, Arthur has finished setting up the PASIV. Eames has already stretched out on the soft tan carpet covering part of the hardwood floor in front of the couch. He appears comfortable, but his index finger tapping against his leg betrays him.  
   
She crouches next to him when he reaches for the tube Arthur throws him, catches it before he can. She takes his hand, wraps the Velcro band around his wrist with the needle still hovering just over his skin.  
   
"Nervous?" she asks.  
   
Eames reaches for her hand and presses a kiss against her knuckles. "Only because you're holding my hand."  
   
She draws her hand back, swats his shoulder. "Cheeseball. Go to sleep."  
   
He gives her a grin, lopsided and strangely intimate. She presses the needle down and, with a slight queasiness to her stomach, feels it break his skin.  
   
Arthur has settled on the loveseat, the wristband is in place. He nods at her.  
   
"Sweet dreams, you two. Enjoy the set-up." She presses the PASIV's button and only seconds later, she's the only conscious person left in the room. The PASIV makes soft, shushing noises.  
   
Ariadne fights a shiver as she watches the three men before her, wraps her arms around her midsection and waits. 


	3. Fever Dreams

When Eames opens his eyes, he's in an ambient-lit sitting room. Wood adorns the wall, its glow is warm in the low light. A pool glistens like onyx, reflects the lines of relaxation chairs in graceful curves that line the pool. Singular orchids stand on black, polished tables next to each chair, a plate with green apples stacked in perfect pyramids next to it, a carafe of water, a glass. All in strict, clean, perfectly measured lines, making Eames wonder if Ariadne has created this to suit Saarela or Arthur.  
   
For what is essentially a rush-job, it's fine work. The smell of salt-water from the gentle surf-like roar of the imitation-waterfall on the far left of the spa is pronounced, and Eames is impressed with that. Dabbling in smells is something that goes wrong more often than it goes right, because the olfactory sense works so differently for every person. The smell of salt-water, however, is nearly universal. He tips his hat to Ariadne and is, belatedly, quite glad that she's in on this. There's a cheeky classiness to her design that pleases him. There are small rooms off to the sides of the main sitting room and Eames knows that they create a perfect, close-looped maze should their mark decide to start wandering too much.  
   
For the moment, though, he's sitting in one of the chairs closest to the sauna, reading. Saarela looks different here than in real life, and Eames knows that it's all about self-projection, self-deceit. With his hair not strictly combed and his painful clothes replaced by nothing but a towel, Saarela looks like the tall, lanky kid who will never grow out of being a teenager even when he's sixty.  
   
Sometimes, dream-sharing involves nothing but patience, so Eames walks past Saarela, gives him a fleeting smile as he passes, and chooses a chair just out of earshot but still close enough to keep watch. He sets his book down, reaches for an apple, bites into the perfect green skin and chews. It's juicy, but doesn't have much taste to it. That's a testament to Ariadne not being brash – if she were to model the apple after the way it tastes like to her, it would be a guaranteed disaster. Saarela could and most likely would perceive the apple's taste differently and be thrown out of the illusion faster than if Eames or Arthur screwed up. Some day, though. Some day she'll manage and selfishly, Eames wants to be present for that. She's going to be brilliant.  
   
Some of the juice dribbles down his chin and he catches it with his index finger just as the door to the spa opens and Arthur walks in, wearing nothing but a towel slung around his hips, a book, and a pair of reading glasses. Eames stops chewing.  
   
He should have learned by now but it never really gets easier, seeing Arthur in these unorthodox environments. It's not their first time on a job together that involves something other than well-chosen suits and perfect attire, but it may well be the first time Eames has seen this much skin. Arthur is all sinews and long, elegant lines, hipbones poking against the towel, pale skin stretched over prominent collarbones. It strikes him how vulnerable this lack of clothing makes Arthur, even though Eames knows that Arthur is anything but.  
   
He rises when Arthur reaches him, sets the apple aside, and finishes chewing. Arthur's gaze zeroes in on the trail of juice that must be glistening on Eames' chin and Eames licks his lips. Arthur's gaze lingers for the merest moment, then snaps away.  
   
They walk to the waterfall in silence and only start talking when they're sure that the water drowns out their voices and Saarela won't hear.  
   
Eames grins at Arthur and reaches as if to pull his towel away. "So the suit isn't surgically grafted to your skin after all." He lets his gaze travel over Arthur, makes sure Arthur sees it. "Of course, this is a dream."  
   
Arthur surveys him in return – such a lovely, lofty look – and replies, "Hiding the tattoos, Eames, really? Afraid you'll spook the mark or just vain?"  
   
"Noticed that, hm? Been ogling me, dear?"  
   
Arthur rolls his eyes. "It's kind of hard to miss you going back to baby-skin."  
   
Eames grins, bends forward and splashes some water in his face. "Our mutual appreciation for each other's skin aside, have you found anything yet?"  
   
Arthur is slow to answer this time – _Distracted_? Eames wonders as he feels drops of water running down his chest – but eventually does. "The pool."  
   
"The pool?"  
   
"It's too dark. Ariadne didn't design it this way."  
 

***

   
The PASIV makes its quiet noises and even after just five minutes, Ariadne is both high-strung and bored out of her mind. She knows time runs faster in the dreamscape, a little more slowly in this one due to the specific kind of compound, but here, in the above-world, it feels as though time crawls and she has already scouted Saarela's flat several times. She's even gone into the bathroom and checked the medicine cabinet. Just one pill bottle in there, half empty, labelled in Finnish. Nothing exciting, but the name has enough double vowels in it that she giggles to herself trying to pronounce it and decides to look it up online later. The bookshelf in the living room looks more interesting. She's found first editions of Asimov novels. Heidegger. Tolstoi, Zafón. Tie-in novels to _Dr. Who_. Saarela's taste in books is pretty eclectic and she likes it.  
   
Her stomach starts protesting the lack of dinner only minutes after Arthur and Eames went under. She'd be tempted to steal some of the really unfairly good-smelling pizza if one slice wouldn't knock her flat on her ass and the eating the undrugged one would give away their presence here.  
   
There are cookies in Saarela's kitchen. They sing to her. She shakes her head and admonishes herself. Like a kid stepping on a train, asking for a snack the minute it pulls out of the station. One of the first rules of the game, though, is to not leave any fingerprints that can't be easily wiped away on a quick exit, so she stuffs her hands into the pockets of her jeans and lifts the carpet with her boot-tip. Up and down to the rhythm of the PASIV's pumps.  
   
After six minutes, she crouches next to Eames, checks his pulse, the wristband, and the steady flow of the compound. All clear. Under Eames' skin, his pulse is steady. He feels a little warmer than strictly normal, but then again, it seems to Ariadne that men are generally warmer than women. She remembers the struggle between her parents: her mom wanting to turn on the heating and her dad complaining it was too warm. She pats Eames' chest and rises to walk around the coffee table to check on Arthur.  
 

***

   
The pool's water is blood-warm and pleasant when Arthur walks down the tiled steps and parts the dark surface. The water's darkness is a puzzle, he swears he saw lights in the pool when Ariadne designed it. They're gone now, and since this is the only thing that has changed about the layout, he's sure that Saarela's secret must be submerged here in the pool somewhere. It's one of the more unusual hiding places he's seen in dreamshare, Arthur muses, and feels a respect for Saarela that the client's report didn't allow.  
   
The water is still inky, creating the eerie feeling of diving head-first into a black hole when he pushes off the stairs and glides into the water. Arthur takes a few swift breaststrokes to reach the middle of the pool, keeping with the illusion of being in here to cool off after the sauna.  
   
It strikes him belatedly that the water is too warm to allow anyone to cool off, but he chalks it off to Ariadne trying to be kind to them and not have them freeze to death. Arthur gets cold easily and appreciates the gesture.  
   
There are only a few projections around the pool; they don't seem interested in him.  
   
Arthur stops swimming in the dead-centre of the pool. The water isn't deep, he can feel the tiles under his toes when he stretches just a little. He paddles, enjoys the warm water, the way it soothes muscles that are tense even in dreams these days.  
   
The projections start talking to each other and Arthur seizes his chance; he takes a deep breath and submerges. Down here, the water seems even warmer, but he runs his outstretched fingers along the tiles nevertheless.  
   
Nothing.  
   
He breaches the surface as quietly as possible, dives again. Blood rushes in his ears when he feels for something, anything at the bottom of the pool. He can't see in the dark, can only feel the water's warmth and the slick-rough feel of the tiles and the joints between them.  
   
Nothing. He resurfaces again when his lungs start to scream in protest and this time, the projections are looking at him. It gives him a nasty start; no matter how many times he's done this, the feel of several people staring straight at him never gets any less disconcerting. Pushing up from the ground, he floats for a while, arms stretched out and looking at the ceiling that's dotted with tiny lights reminiscent of a night sky. If he relaxes, he might find star constellations, because Ariadne just has that eye for detail and would add a feature like that. But he doesn't have time and he can't relax.  
   
The water buoys him, laps over his chest gentle and warm enough to be unpleasant now. It's like sitting in a bathtub with the water turned up to full heat. He wonders what's wrong with the pool, because he knows that Ariadne didn't design anything so flawed.  
   
Time for results, then. He only has about fifteen minutes to begin with, the usual time for a sauna-round, and Eames won't be able to distract Saarela forever. A look at his wristwatch tells him that ten minutes have passed already.  
   
Arthur risks a glance in the direction of the projections. They've settled again, back to resting in the chairs and reading their respective books or newspapers, but they're throwing surreptitious glances in his direction. He won't be able to keep diving, then, needs a new strategy.  
   
Of course, the water's not deep, so he might be able to get away with shuffling his feet over the floor. He tries, realises that his feet are as sensitive as his hands to the changes of tile, joints and the occasional spot of metal probably hiding whirlpool jets. He pulls his foot away from that spot quickly, though – it's hot as a kettle left on the stove for too long. A niggling concern tries to take over his brain but he ignores it. He needs to work, so he keeps shuffling, keeps trying to look as unsuspicious as possible while he slowly gets frantic. Three minutes. They're going to come out any minute now and the water is really fucking hot. As he looks to the silent projections, Arthur sees steam evaporate in slow and lazy curls from the water and that is definitely off.  
   
He's on his third shuffle over the floor, with the water getting steadily warmer – he really needs to talk to Ariadne about overdoing favours – when his toes finally catch something. A ring, flopping up and down easily when he hooks his toes into it. Bingo. A little heavy on the _Geocaching_ meets _Treasure Island_ by way of _James Bond_ , but he'll take it.  
   
Arthur checks the projections, checks his watch, then pulls, flexing his calf and thigh and–  
   
Suddenly can't move. Something has closed around his ankle, plants his foot flat on the pool's bottom so he barely manages to keep his mouth and nose above the water.  
   
He struggles, gasps despite better knowledge and of course, the projections are looking now, they're inching closer.  
   
Steam all but shrouds them, the water is really hurting him now, it's to the point of scalding and he can't get loose, whatever's at the bottom traps him. The projections inch closer, even as he dives to try and get his foot loose, and he _can't_ , he's trapped. Panic takes a choke-hold, the water eats at his skin, no longer water but hot acid, burning through skin and tissue while the water around him begins to bubble, it's cooking him. He knows this is just a dream, pain's in the mind, in the mind, _in the fucking mind_ , but this is _his_ mind and he still has time on the clock. Eames isn't there and he can't die and he's being boiled alive and, god, the pain is unbearable, he's going to end up as dream stew – simmered kidney, it's on the speciality menu today, it hurts, fuck, but it's _agony_ , he can't breathe and can't see and the projections are all there now, staring at him as the water closes over his face and scalds the skin right off his bones, he swallows boiling ink and it sears his throat, he resurfaces, his heart slows, speeds up, slows, his skin detaches from his flesh– Arthur screams.  
 

***

   
Ariadne is on her third read-though of the spines of the books in Saarela's place, trying to decipher the Finnish titles. In lieu of a scarf around her neck she twirls a strand of hair around her index finger. She stops it when she remembers that she's prone to shedding hair when she does that, and the file hadn't hinted at Saarela having a girlfriend or even a cleaner. Finding long hair on his carpet is bound to raise suspicion. They have to be like shades in the night, dreams themselves, disappearing, melting away by the time the subject wakes. She wonders if Arthur feels see-through sometimes, always hiding, never walking unguarded.  
   
A crash rips her from her contemplation and she flinches so hard it hurts as she whips around. A glass lies on the hardwood floor, tipped over, a pool of liquid around it. It's still rolling back and forth gently until it comes to rest. Her heart slams against her chest and she clenches her hands into the sleeves of her jacket. Spooked. Just spooked. Saarela must have had a sleep-twitch and kicked the table, making the glass topple off. She's never heard of sleep-twitches under the compound, though. Then again, she is very new to this. But Arthur trusted her to do this, to watch over them. "Easy job," he'd said. "In and out, just watch us and wake us should something happen out here."  
   
Of course, he hadn't defined what he meant by that, she thinks when she looks at Saarela and a nasty feeling makes her scalp prickle.  
   
Saarela doesn't look too good. He's pale and sweating, not at all the mask of calm that she sees on Arthur's or Eames' face. She walks to the PASIV and checks the flow of the compound just like Arthur has shown her but she knows that ultimately, if something really is wrong, she has no idea what to do besides wake Arthur. All she can hope, all she has hoped from the beginning of this evening, is that nothing goes wrong.  
   
Saarela is breathing faster and – come to think of it – he's not the only one. Arthur's breath is speeding up too and when she goes to check his pulse, his skin is hot to the touch, while his pulse races at twice the normal rate. His face is eerily still, though.  
   
No reason to worry, then, right? Instinct has her going to Saarela as well, though, and when she hovers her hand over his face, she snatches it back with a muttered curse. He's burning up. She feels the heat radiating against her palm even from three inches above his face. Sweat mats his hair and, this close, she can see his limbs trembling, his lips void of blood.  
   
The hell. _The hell?_ Her mind races through the possibilities, maybe he was sick to begin with, maybe he has the flu, maybe it's something else entirely and she suddenly, violently, feels resentful toward Arthur for not telling her more about what could go wrong so that she'd be better suited to deal with it. Inside the dream during the Fischer job it was another matter entirely, she was there with them as a team and together they could just think on their feet and find a solution. The accelerated brain activity had certainly helped, too. Out here, she feels slow and sluggish and alone, can't do anything for Saarela, doesn't know how to do anything but wake Arthur and it's the dependency on that solution that drives her up the wall.  
   
Saarela starts to tremble in earnest now, his feet kick out and rattle the table; the loud noises reverberate in the otherwise quiet room and make Ariadne jump again.  
   
It all falls to pieces then.  
   
She's whirling around to Arthur, ready to just slap him across the face to wake him when she stops dead in her tracks.  
   
Saarela's not the only one trembling. Down on the floor, Eames is suddenly jerking, his formerly peaceful face drawn into a grimace. Sweat is running off his face and there's a keening sound at the back of his throat that has icy chills running down Ariadne's back. She flies to his side, checks his pulse – too fast, unsteady – and _fuck_ , he, too, is burning up.  
   
Can a sickness be spread through the PASIV? Can it be accelerated through the dream? She doesn't know, doesn't know anything about this, she's for the first time painfully aware that she's a damn rookie and not up to this.  
   
As ice settles in her stomach, she stumbles over to Arthur, finds him twitching, his hands clenched into the loveseat's cushions, knuckles white. There's a sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip. She hardly dares reach out a hand but does so anyway, body on auto-pilot to slap him, shake him. Her hand burns when it meets his cheek, when it clenches into the fabric of his shirt and is met with heat radiating from his skin.  
   
"Wake up, damn it. Wake up!"  
   
Arthur doesn't wake. Instead, his trembles get worse, skittering up her hands and settling into her bones along with mind-numbing, bright panic.  
   
A kick. Her brain screams at her, clawing to fight against the panic. She needs a kick.  
   
In a moment of clarity, she shoves Arthur off the loveseat.  
 

***

   
Eames is a little disappointed when Arthur takes off the reading glasses and turns to walk toward the pool, but he sees Saarela move and slides back into his role.  
   
He follows on Saarela's heels and catches the sauna's door before it can close in front of his face.  
   
Dry heat meets him, there are remnants of herb-scents in the air, but light enough to not throw the mark off, the smell of dry wood. Ariadne has designed the sauna in warm wood, pine, probably. A display over the door shows the temperature – 90°C, the perfect sauna temperature. The cabin is a spacious octagon with benches running all around the walls and a large pile of stones in the middle hiding the heater. Eames is inappropriately reminded of a pyre and makes a mental note to talk to Ariadne about taking symbolism a little too far. He can already imagine her smirk, though.  
   
He's a little taken aback when Saarela unwinds the towel from around his hips, places it on the bench and presents Eames with a lovely shot of the full monty. Eames catches himself enough to shrug inwardly and lose his own towel as well. He has no qualms about nudity, feels secure enough in his own body, though he can't help but think that it's a bloody shame Arthur has to extract Saarela's hidden information and won't be joining him in here. He would have liked to see the heat undoing some of that perfect façade. Wonders if Arthur would have kept the towel on. Eames remembers the way Arthur's gaze followed the water on his skin earlier and imagines stretching out in front of Arthur, nude, just to gauge his reaction. One day, he'd like one that goes beyond the occasional too long glance. That line of thinking is going to get him in trouble, though, because there's one thing a Finnish sauna and this job is definitely not about, and that's sex. Eames shoves his fantasies back in their box with brutal force. No good parading around in front of the mark with a hard-on.  
   
He places the towel on the lowest bench and flashes a quick smile at Saarela before he sits on it. "Not very busy today, is it?" he asks in a broad Texan accent. Brash, clumsy-friendly American seems just the way to distract.  
   
Saarela makes a non-committal noise, closes his eyes and leans back. Damn, the kid is skinny. Sharp bones poke at skin that looks like it never sees the sunlight.  
   
"It's my first time in one of these, you know?" Eames continues. "It's great that it's not packed. Bit weird with the nakedness but, hey, you do what the locals do, right?"  
   
Saarela opens one eye and gives him a look that clearly tells Eames to shut up.  
   
"So," Eames keeps prying, keeps being annoying. "What exactly is it you do here?"  
   
Saarela leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "We sweat," he answers in a surprisingly full basso that doesn't seem to have room in his skinny body. "And we are silent."  
   
"Silent, gotcha."  
   
Talking to Fins is never an easy feat but Eames isn't here for conversation, or he'd be gnawing his leg off in frustration. He leans back, feels the first tickling of sweat on his forehead and chest and admires the design for a little longer. There's a small window overlooking the area outside; the pool is just visible, probably in full view when one gets up on one of the higher benches. Eames climbs up to look outside and sees Arthur walking into the dark pool, his lean body elegant as always as it disappears in the water. In Speedos. Eames fights a grin and rolls his eyes. Of bloody course. He doesn't forget for one second though that if Arthur's right and Saarela's secret really is hidden at the bottom of the pool, he needs to make sure that the kid doesn't even get close to this bench to look outside.  
   
From up here, Eames sees that the rocks in the pyre are glowing red. The temperature has climbed to 95°C. "Hey," he calls out and sees Saarela's shoulders twitch with annoyance. "I hear they throw water on the stones to make it interesting?"  
   
"It is called löyly," Saarela says, his voice softer when using a words in his mother tongue. "Wait for it. In silence."  
   
Eames grins. Others would have left but Saarela, from what the file has suggested, is tenacious; he loves a challenge. Apparently even one to his patience.  
   
A few seconds later, there is a quiet whirr and a panel draws back to reveal what looks like a shower head directly over the pyre. A stream of water is released and hits the hot rocks with a sharp hiss, creating instant steam that spreads out in the room instantly. A blast of heat meets Eames' face and body, as the sudden humidity changes the way his body perceives the heat. Sweat flows freely now. He breathes shallowly as he tries to keep the steam from burning his nose. It feels as though it got warmer in the sauna, but it might just be the steam that’s playing tricks on his perception. He cranes his neck a little and wipes a hand over his neck, spreading perspiration. Arthur's head is visible in the centre of the pool, appearing and disappearing in the water. The window in the sauna begins to fog up, though, making it impossible to see what exactly Arthur is doing.  
   
"It is easier if you lay down," Saarela says when he looks up.  
   
Eames takes the advice and stretches out on the bench; on his stomach so he can watch Saarela. He's not averse to the dry kind of heat, despite the 100°C the display now shows, it's a lot better than the stickiness of a Mombasa summer, but the humidity added by the löyly makes it a little harder to focus. He's aware of his body's reaction to it – his muscles relax, his skin works overtime to cool the body by sweating.  
   
Saarela doesn't look too good, Eames realises when he rests his chin on his hands. Climbing from the first bench to the second, Saarela sways once but catches himself. Despite the fact that it's hot as hell in here, he looks strangely pale.  
   
The shower head releases a new spray of water on the hot rocks and steam fills the cabin, debilitating Eames for a few moments. He's a bit surprised that new steam is added so quickly but takes it by resting his forehead on his arms. Searing heat moves over his back and arse. With a grin he hides against the towel, he wonders if that's what a chicken would feel in a broiler.  
   
"Did it get hotter in here?" he asks.  
   
"Is the löyly. The more humidity is in the air, the hotter the sauna feels," Saarela answers.  
   
"I heard about some crazy contests some of you guys did, with temperatures up to 280°F." Eames has, in preparation for this job, and he shudders when he remembers the results of these contests. "Kinda crazy if you ask me. I mean, if I wanted to be baked, I’d sit in an oven, right?" He wonders if Saarela might subconsciously dream about breaking the heat record.  
   
"They," Saarela says, "are a disgrace to sauna culture." Definitely not after some kind of record, then. His voice is full of contempt, but wavers as though he’s been running.  
   
Eames raises his head. "Hey, man, are you all right?" Saarela doesn't look it. Eames is surprised to see not a single drop of sweat on him.  
   
Saarela doesn't answer but sways again.  
   
Again, water rushes down on the hot rocks, the humidity raises the perceived temperature and begins to actually become painful. Eames looks at the digital temperature control above the door. 110°C. No wonder he feels like a frigging Sunday roast. The numbers climb steadily. 111°. 112°. The European Emergency number, his brain supplies helpfully.  
   
Something is definitely off. A malfunction? Something wrong with the dream? Arthur is the dreamer and it gives Eames a nasty start to think that something might be going wrong out there. The window is fully fogged up now, he can't see anything through it any longer. His ears feel like they're on fire. His heart beats double-time, both from the heat exertion and the sudden, gnawing concern.  
   
"Hey, how about we–" Next to him, Saarela collapses on the bench.  
   
"Shit." Marks collapsing in a dream are very rare and never a good sign. Eames rises from the bench, and finds the quick movement makes him dizzy . With his head higher than it was before, the heat is even worse. 115°C. The rocks glow a menacing red.  
   
Bloody hell.  
   
He slides off the bench and tries to pull Saarela with him, but fails when he starts swaying himself. More water hisses on the rock, ramping up the humidity to 100 per cent. His eyes hurt, making him afraid they'll boil and he has to fight the urge to close them. He can feel his skin blistering. He slinks toward the door to open it and call for help – only to realise that the door won't open.  
   
 _Don't panic_ , he tells himself. _Been through worse._ It's just a little hard to remember exactly when as the heat begins to blister his skin. Breathing is painful. Thinking is painful. He crouches low to the floor where it's not quite as scorchingly hot and moves toward the opposite side of the sauna. The safety door he'd had Ariadne add into the design remains as closed as the sauna's main one.  
   
130°C.  
   
Panic begins to claw into his mind, debilitating and maddening. He's never been good with enclosed spaces. Water hisses on the rocks, but it's barely audible over the pounding of Eames' heart in his ears.  
   
The forge of unmarked skin fails, his tattoos flicker on and off on his scalded, blistered arms. Saarela stares at him from huge glassy eyes, his breathing shallow to the point of non-existence. Eames doubts he is even aware of his surroundings anymore. Eames no longer knows how to breathe; the air burns his nose, windpipe and lungs. The skin under his nostrils has burnt off.  
   
132°C.  
   
Fighting against panic, nausea and crippling pain, Eames crawls back to the door. There can't be much more time on the clock, but he needs to get out of here, needs to get out now. His skin is no longer covered with sweat. Idly, he wonders how long it'll take for his blood to boil. 43°C core temperature is the most a human body can endure.  
   
133°C  
   
He bangs against the door, shouts and rages, even though he knows it's useless. Arthur is too far away and, in the pool, he won't hear Eames, but damn it, _damn_ it, Eames is too far gone to think about logic, he _needs_ Arthur to hear. Panic is so bright and sharp on his tongue that he can taste it.  
   
He tries to press his ear against the door, shrinks back when the wood burns the skin on his earlobe, but he hears it, even over the sound of a new, merciless jet of water being released onto the rocks. Someone is screaming outside.  
   
 _Arthur_ is screaming.  
   
Eames brain shuts down. With what he has left, he throws himself against the door, only to sink back down when the waft of steam hits him and blisters the skin on his back immediately. He goes down with a muffled cry of pain, but the pain doesn't lessen, more steam keeps coming. It boils the skin off his back and legs, he's on fire, unable to kill himself to wake up unless he launches himself at the pyre. The pain makes him so nauseous, he vomits over the wooden floor that burns the skin off his torso and his fucking dick and he knows that it can't be that much longer and that pain is in the mind, but fuck, _fuck_ , this is his mind and it's fucking real and his scalp is separating from his skull and he is burning, burning, _burning_. When Arthur's screams stop, he starts his own.  
   
140°C.  
   
Eames howls like an animal.  
 

***

   
Arthur comes awake without a sound but with eyes so wild and beyond sane, beyond panicked, that Ariadne shrinks back against the wall just to get out of the line of fire.  
   
He takes deep, gulping breaths of air and visibly fights the urge to throw up. His hands are shaking. _He_ is shaking. In the entire time they have worked together, back during the month of the Fischer job and now here, in Finland, Ariadne has never once seen a reaction like this, has never seen Arthur out of control. He is now and it scares the living daylights out of her.  
   
They don't have time for this, though. "Whatever happened down there has _got_ to wait." She directs his attention to Saarela who is convulsing in the couch, his hair sweaty.  
   
"Eames?" Arthur asks as he gets up from the floor and it's a raw croak.  
   
"One kick, coming up," she says even though she doesn't feel like being cheerful at all. It works, though, Arthur is a Saarela's side in an instant, giving her time to deal with Eames.  
   
It was easier to kick Arthur, who'd been sitting on the loveseat, awake. Eames is on the floor and just slapping him won't work. She's tried it. But Eames is sweating and flushed and tense, too, he starts cramping again just as Arthur exclaims, "Shitshit _shit_ ," behind her in a tone that sets off all her warning bells in a screaming cacophony.  
   
She hefts Eames' upper body up with great difficulty – he must have a good seventy pounds on her and he's starting to thrash – and holds him suspended , smells sweat-damp hair, overheated skin, remnants of the morning's aftershave and fresh fear. She pulls him closer still and then, with a snap, she pushes him away from her so he falls back to the ground with a thump that has the tumbler on the couch table rattling. Ariadne winces and hopes she hasn't given him a concussion.  
   
For a long, agonising moment nothing happens and all she can hear is Arthur ripping open zippers and cursing up a storm under his breath, then finally, finally Eames opens his eyes. Unlike Arthur, he comes awake with a hoarse, gut-wrenching cry of utter pain. He rolls to the side and dry-heaves, his eyes screwed shut tight. "Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck – "  
   
"Eames!" Arthur's voice snaps through the otherwise quiet room like a gunshot and the change in Eames is as day and night. He straightens, seems to lock away whatever has shaken him as badly as it has Arthur, and moves to crouch next to him.  
   
Arthur doesn't take his eyes off Saarela. He says just two words. "Somnacin antagonist."  
   
"Fucking hell!" Eames expletive is resounding.  
   
"Somebody explain?"  
   
"The bag," Eames orders. He doesn't look up, just snaps his fingers at her and while everything in her rebels at his tone and demeanour, she knows this isn't the time for a hissy fit. She hands him the small black bag. He takes out a syringe, double checks, then plunges the needle in Saarela's arm.  
   
"Have a look if he has a sauna," Arthur says with his attention fully on Saarela who slowly stops twitching. "Then heat it up."  
   
Ariadne's gaze snaps to Arthur. "What?" Next to her, Eames tenses.  
   
"We need a cover." Arthur starts divesting Saarela of clothes, like undressing an oversized child.  
   
He can't be serious. He _can't_. "We can't leave him in a running sauna, he'll die of heat-stroke!"  
   
"We won't leave it running." Arthur audibly bites back on the _idiot_ at the end of the sentence. "Shut the heat down at 45°C."  
   
"But –– "  
   
"Stop wasting time. Do it." She's never heard this cold, commanding tone from Eames and the shock of it snaps her into action.  
   
Ariadne finds the small private sauna attached to the bathroom; it's nothing more than a comfortable, wood-lined broom cupboard. She finds the switch outside of it and closes the door to start the heating process. She watches a thermometer next to the door climb slowly. Metric. After two years in France, it has finally started to mean something to her. It must be a powerful heater, 45°C are reached within minutes.  
   
When she returns to the living room, Eames and Arthur have Saarela, who's calm again and no longer twitching, stripped down completely and heft him up. Ariadne averts her eyes at his vulnerable nakedness. She wonders how much danger Saarela is in. Arthur and Eames won't leave him if something is really wrong, will they?  
   
She sees the looks of determination on both men's faces and suddenly isn't sure. They look like they're running on empty, they're just functioning right now, relying on training, no compassion, no feeling whatsoever in their actions.  
   
"45°C," she says and pulls the sleeves of her shirt over her hands.  
   
"Get a towel, put it on the bench."  
   
She moves just as automatically as they do now and does as she's told. This isn't about feminism. This is about listening to experience, no matter how much she wants to fight and buck and kick against it without any explanation offered from either Arthur or Eames.  
   
Eames stops just before they reach the sauna. Ariadne sees him sway when she comes out of the warm, claustrophobic room. "You take him in," he says to Arthur, toneless. They exchange a look over Saarela's bowed head. Ariadne doesn't see what Arthur sees, but Arthur's lips thin. He slings his arm tighter around Saarela's chest and takes his limp form from Eames without asking the reason.  
   
With difficulty, he manoeuvres Saarela into the sauna and onto the lowest bench.  
   
He closes the door behind him as he comes out.  
   
"Arthur." She has to try again, has to be the voice of reason. She will not let them make her be a killer. "He'll die if we leave him in there."  
   
Arthur shakes his head. "Not warm enough for it. He'll wake in fifteen minutes and will think he fell asleep in the sauna. Enough explanation for feeling hot and sweaty and for having fever dreams." She sees him suppress a shudder before he catches himself. "Pack up. Wipe everything down. We need to get out of here."  
 

***

   
They send Ariadne out first. She walks out to retrieve to the small Vespa Eames arrived on. It's parked in a side street to Saarela's Ilmarisenkatu 4 address. Eames already removed the signs marking it as a pizza delivery moped earlier, so she'll only need to take it back to the hotel where it will be picked up and discarded soon enough.  
   
As he leaves the grey housing block, Arthur finds a measure of calm in going through each stage of the plan. Eames will leave five minutes after him, in a new change of clothing from the bag Ariadne took with her. No one who wasn't watching them intently will know they were in the same apartment together.  
   
He'll meet Eames again at the bus stop on Koulukatu, a brisk walk of a couple of minutes from Saarela's apartment. Linja 1 will get them closest to Arthur's hotel where they'll meet Ariadne for a debrief of this clusterfuck. Somnacin antagonist. If the client had just put that in the damned briefing, instead of his contemptuous dissections of Saarela's socialization, they could have used a different compound. If he'd only questioned why it mattered to Farnborough and Pollard that he used a Somnacin variant, he could have told them most variants were still too close to the original formula to avoid an antagonist reaction. He breathes in hard through his nose and pushes the frustration and anger down, down with the still lingering terror and memory-pain from the failed dream. This isn't the time to indulge in the blame game.  
   
The sun still hasn't set; just after midsummer it never seems to get fully dark during the nights. There's just a long period of strange twilight. Arthur's body appears to be stuck on a constant jet-lag. He's only slept in fifteen minute naps and has had time to observe the strangeness of the light. It's different from the White Nights in St. Petersburg. Maybe the lack of true darkness is fucking with his sleep too and not just the omnipresent stress.  
   
The sign for the bus stop is so small that it's easily passed by unless you know what it is you're looking for. Arthur stands next to it and tries to repress what just happened. Just a dream. Just a side-effect of Saarela's drug. He needs to compartmentalise and let it go.  
   
He's glad when Eames arrives because it means he has something else to concentrate on besides himself. Minutes pass and Arthur catalogues Eames' features, remembers the scream Eames woke up with. He sees Eames check his pocket watch for the third time since he arrived at the bus stop, even though he hasn't once looked at the timetable. They'll catch the last bus out to Törnäväntie, Arthur knows. Eames knows, too, and he isn't usually this tense, not when he had as big a part in scouting the plan as Arthur. He watches as Eames twirls the watch in his hands, gliding it between his fingers, wrapping the chain around his thumb until his skin starts to get a blue tint, and winces inside.  
   
There's no one on the street besides them, so Arthur reaches out. "Hey." He loosens the chain and can't decide what worries him more – that Eames doesn't stop him or that Eames' hand _shakes_.  
   
"Hey, are you okay?"  
   
Eames lifts his head and looks at Arthur -and Arthur wants to recoil at what he sees reflected in Eames' gaze. A sardonic smile flashes over Eames' face. It doesn't reach his eyes. "Are you?"  
   
The arrival of a young couple saves Arthur from having to answer. He doesn't have to, anyway. Eames knows Arthur's tells, and Arthur himself knows that he hasn't suppressed the events of the dream well enough to fool Eames. His skin still feels over-sensitive, there still is phantom pain sparking along his nerve endings wherever a piece of clothing touches it.  
   
Eames is pale and he holds himself in a way that Arthur only sees when Eames is holding a tight, brutal reign on himself and his body language. He knows he's giving away just as much, but there's nothing to be done about, so he doesn't answer.  
 

***

   
They meet up in the hotel, where Ariadne's first question is, "What the hell happened?"  
   
He shakes his head. "Get Eames something to drink. I have to make a phone call," Arthur says, forcing his tightly clenched teeth apart just enough to push out the words. He walks out without looking back, leaving them in the sitting room of his suite. In the doorway, he hesitates and calls back to Eames, "Explain antagonists to her, would you?"  
   
He dials the client's number and forces himself to relax enough to speak in a civil tone, no matter how much he feels like yelling. These are powerful people he's dealing with, after all.  
   
The phone is picked up with a question, not an introduction. "Did you succeed?"  
   
Arthur denies. "We ran into… obstacles." He clenches his hand around the phone hard enough to crush it and inflects as much irritation as he dares into his voice when he continues, "The subject is taking counter-Somnacin drugs."  
   
"Yes." There isn't even surprise in the curt reply.  
   
Arthur still feels his skin blistering in the boiling pool, and bursts out, "You didn't deem it necessary to tell us?"  
   
"We are working under a deadline. Mr. Saito assured us you were the best," Pollard's voice, drifting through the static-riddled line sounds cold, disapproving.  
   
"And the best are the best because they do a job right, not in a careless hurry," Arthur replies, letting some of the anger that's brimming in him colour his words. "The information you provided was inadequate." The word 'sloppy' is on the tip of his tongue but he swallows it. These people are paying him, after all, and he does remember Cobol. "Saarela's drugs prevent the use of even our formula."  
   
"We are not paying you to inform us about problems. You're supposed to be the best. We expect to get what we pay for."  
   
"Without adequate information we can extract nothing. We need a compound tailored specifically to work around the resistance which requires blood samples from the mark, which – "  
   
"We do not need you to tell us how you do your job," Pollard interrupts him. There is a short pause before he continues, "All you need to know is that if you do not succeed within the next week, there will consequences not only for yourself and your co-workers but Mr Saito as well. Have I made myself clear?"  
   
Arthur hides any reaction. "Very."  
   
The line goes dead and several pieces of the picture fall abruptly into place like Legos made from lead; they slot together with perfect clicks. Saito's opaque attitude in regard to these clients, for one. Cobol hadn't frightened Saito. Neither had Fischer's money. The only entity with the power to push Saito around is his own government. The clients are either on official business or rogue and Arthur doesn't know which option is more terrifying. Pollard and Farnborough are either intelligence agents themselves or actors hired to subtly mislead him and Saarela is, at the least, an asset to some intelligence agency. No one else had easy access to Somnacin antagonists, even in the dreamshare industry, their existence is almost unknown.  
   
The question of why hire Arthur of all people isn't hard to figure out. Arthur and Dom were the best private extractors in dreamshare and though no one knew who the mark was, everyone knew they'd succeeded in pulling off inception. The rumour of their success had spread through the illegal dreamshare like a wildfire. With Dom retired, Arthur is all that's left and he's had job offers piling up in his e-mail account. It's a well-known fact in the business that intelligence agencies aren't averse to hiring contractors when they lack the expertise to do a job themselves. Some teams take these jobs. Dom and Arthur had always refused. The key is secrecy, a willingness to turn a blind eye and nerves of steel to play their fucked-up game of don't ask and we won't have to kill you.  
   
But they didn't just threaten Arthur's team, did they? They're threatening Saito as well. Arthur's mind trips over itself, trying to think of what they could have on Saito before he reminds himself there doesn't need to be anything. All they need to do is fabricate something and Saito goes down without a chance of ever surfacing again. It's the same old game that's been played for centuries.  
   
Now Arthur is right in the middle of it when he swore to never get involved with any of this. He's dragged Ariadne into it. Eames, too.  
   
Fuck. Fuck it all to hell.  
   
Arthur runs a hand through his hair and pretends he doesn't notice how it shakes.  
 

***

   
"So, did you give them hell?" Ariadne asks when Arthur steps back into the room.  
   
Arthur doesn't look at her, concentrates on the painting on the wall instead. "Yeah," he lies, because he can't tell them, can't let them know the danger he's put them in. "They were apologetic and gave us one more week to crack Saarela." He gags on the words, so he reaches for a glass of water and drinks deeply.  
   
From the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Eames stop scribbling in his notebook and set his pen down.  
   
"A week?" Ariadne asks, incredulous. "Can't they allow you to bounce back first? What's the damn rush?"  
   
Arthur shakes his head. "Not our business. The client wants it in five days, we give it to him in five days."  
   
Ariadne runs a hand through her hair. "I don't believe this."  
   
Eames watches him, tips his pen against his lower lip. Arthur meets his gaze briefly, then looks away. The pen clicks in rapid-fire sequence, the tip appearing and disappearing frantically. Five, six times. Finally, Eames says, "Let's get cracking, then."  
   
"We'll need to move fast. The Somnacin has to be out of our systems within forty-eight hours in order for us to practice with a new formula. We need a chemist – "  
   
"New formula?" Ariadne echoes in disbelief.  
   
"Yusuf has a compound that might not trigger the Somnacin antagonist. Several, in fact. We'll want to see which works best for us once we're Somnacin-free."  
   
"Are you insane?" Ariadne asks in a toneless voice that does nothing to hide the anger beneath. "Was once not enough for you?"  
   
Arthur drinks again as his stomach threatens to revolt. "We don't have much of a choice. A week isn't enough time for a placebo to reliably detox Saarela of the antagonist. We have to use another drug." They'll try, of course, because the fewer drugs in the target's system, the safer any dreamshare will be, for him and them. "I spoke to Yusuf before coming here." Always have another option. It had just been another option back then. Now it's a damn necessity. "Yusuf'll have it couriered to us."  
   
"Why not get him here?"  
   
"Yusuf is down with Dengue," Eames offers, making Arthur wonder – briefly – how Eames knows.  
   
Ariadne groans and rubs a hand over her face. "Let me guess, you don't want another chemist."  
   
"We don't trust any other," Eames says in a tone that stops any further argument. _We_ , Arthur thinks. _When did this turn to 'we'?_  
   
Ariadne rises from the couch and her posture screams defensiveness. "I will _not_ watch you two kill yourself while you play lab rats."  
   
"Trust me, Ariadne, I have no interest in that. Neither has Eames." He adds, "You never know, maybe we'll hit gold at the first try." Because, god knows, they are on an insanely short clock for this extraction. They'll need to use the test runs for the alternative drug to build the dream they'll use on Saarela, and someone will need to replace Saarela's medication with placebos which means another B&E, adding to the risk of drawing the attention of the police as well the Finnish security services. Damn it all to hell. As though the whole thing isn't complicated enough already.  
   
Eames and Ariadne snort at the same time and Arthur wants to join them so badly it tears at his gut with sharp claws but he can't; his mind is a swirling mess of warning bells and new plans, of deceit and exit strategies. It's hard to fight a clear path through the chaos.  
 

***

   
Ariadne paces the room a couple of times, then squares her shoulders. "Okay. So Saarela detoxes via a placebo. How do you plan on getting the current drug out of your system?" It's one of the things she asked Yusuf back in Paris, why he insisted on breaks between the test runs.  
   
"One compound is fine for repeated use," she remembers him saying, "but there are nasty side effects when you don't have it out of your system before you try a new one. It takes a good fifteen hours before it's flushed out."  
   
Arthur is silent for a while, appears distracted; he clearly hasn't thought about that part yet.  
   
"Figured as much." She puts all the derisiveness she can muster into the sentence. Her tone has Eames' eyebrow climbing up. She doesn't care. If they plan on making her watch another reaction like the one she just witnessed, they damn well better cut her some slack when it comes to snark now. "Look, the skin is the biggest organ we have, correct?"  
   
Arthur and Eames nod.  
   
"It's also the biggest eliminative organ, as good as one of our kidneys."  
   
Ariadne sees understanding begin to dawn on Eames' face before Arthur sees where she is going with this. Her plan is the only viable, safe option and she wonders why he hasn't thought of it yet.  
   
"We don't have the time to do it the regular way. But we're in Finland. What's the best Finnish invention?"  
   
She doesn't wait for an answer but walks into Arthur's bathroom and opens the door to the sauna she saw Arthur's suite boasting earlier.  
   
 _"No."_  
   
Ariadne whirls around and narrows her eyes at Eames. She grabs fresh towels from their railing and puts on a winning smile. "Come on, Eames."  
   
"You have got to be kidding me." Eames' voice is on the verge of being panicked. Ariadne sees him breathe against it and wonders what the hell is wrong with him. "Are you completely off your rocker?" Eames glares at the towel she's holding in his direction.  
   
"It's the easiest way to detox outside of dialysis."  
   
Eames crosses his arms over his chest. His hands shake visibly. "No."  
   
"She's right, Eames," Arthur chimes in. His voice is surprisingly gentle.  
   
"I said no."  
   
"We need to be clean within 24 hours, we can't wait for the drug to clear out the regular way."  
   
"I just got _roasted alive_ in one of those bloody things!"  
   
Ariadne bites back on a gasp. Finally. So this is what rattled Eames so much. Roasted alive. She remembers clearly feeling how Mal stabbed her. Being roasted alive… She swallows against a sudden wave of nausea. Her idea is bad after all. She definitely doesn't want Eames to relive that kind of trauma.  
   
"In a dream, Eames." Arthur's words are calm, almost cold.  
   
"Tell us how _you_ died, Arthur," Eames shoots back and there's a nasty tone to his voice that she's never heard from Eames before.  
   
Arthur tenses, gives Eames a hard stare, but doesn't reply. Instead, he shakes off his jacket and loosens his tie.  
   
Ariadne gapes as he starts unbuttoning his shirt. She sees Eames doing the same to her left. Her thoughts derail a little at the so utterly strange view. At the same time she can't help but marvel at what a cold and heartless bastard Arthur is.  
   
"One of us has to start, right?" Arthur stops with both hands on the buttons over his midsection and asks with one eyebrow arched high, "Did you expect me to go in a sauna wearing a suit? Please."  
   
Eames opens his mouth and closes it again. No words come out and that might be a first.  
   
It's a bad idea. If Eames has a trauma that revolves around a sauna, then getting him to go into one is the worst idea possible. But what choice do they have? Eames is a consummate professional, and if Arthur thinks Eames can handle it, Arthur, who has known Eames much longer than she has, then Ariadne has to trust that he's right, despite everything inside her yelling no. She takes her cue from Arthur and starts unwinding the scarf from around her neck. She feels weird and uncomfortable doing this, would prefer to undress in a more private setting, but right now, it's a matter of beating Eames with his own weapons to get him in there with them. It's pragmatism, not seduction, which makes it easier. She's not a temptress and doesn't want to be. Not here.  
   
She's on the third button of her blouse, her hands between her breasts, when she notices Arthur's gaze on her. His dress-shirt is off his shoulders by now, revealing an undershirt and a lot more skin than she's ever seen on him, other than in the hotel gym. Her gaze snaps up to meet his and they just look for a couple of long seconds. She has never taken the time to look in his eyes, she realises, and it's the wrong time to try it now, because Arthur is no longer looking her in the eyes. His gaze drops to her hands instead and she flushes. She's refuses to back down, though. This is for the job, for Eames, not for personal indulgence. She continues unbuttoning her blouse, quick and efficient. It's likely the least sexy strip in the history of stripping. Which is fine by her. Just fine.  
   
Ariadne drops the blouse and hears the muted clink of Arthur's belt-buckle as it hits the carpet, hears Eames suck in a sharp breath as the blouse slides off her shoulders to join Arthur's pants on the floor. She hears Arthur's breath pick up, too.  
   
"You play dirty, both of you." Eames' voice isn't steady and Ariadne can't handle the sudden intimacy in his tone.  
   
"Then let's stop this before we have to break out into _'You can leave your hat on'_ and get moving," she says, her tone as annoyed as possible to help dissipate the tension in the room. "I'll see you in the sauna." Ariadne picks up the towel again and thrusts it at Eames. "Now strip."  
   
Something lights up in his eyes and a grin flashes over his face. It's awkwardly, horribly forced, but it's still an improvement over only a moment ago. "Ladies first."  
   
"In your dreams, sweetheart," she answers and blows him a kiss while retreating to the bathroom.  
   
"Gladly," is the last thing she hears before she closes the bathroom door.  
 

***

   
Arthur decides to shut down the part of his mind running in circles like a hamster in a wheel as he walks into the small private sauna. He needs to clear his mind and he needs to deal with Eames before he can formulate a plan.  
   
Ariadne is already inside; she gives him a quick, uncomfortable smile and checks her towel when he sits down next to her on the second bench. It's a weird situation and they both know it.  
   
Hot, dry air surrounds Arthur and he closes his eyes for a few moments to get acclimated. He doesn't think Eames will follow them. His admission had sent Arthur reeling. Roasted alive. Eames would either be mad or the most fucking professional _ever_ to follow them in the sauna after that.  
   
What feels like part of an hour later, the door to the sauna creaks again. Arthur opens his eyes and sees Eames in the doorway. The open door brings in the brighter, fluorescent light from outside and disturbs the warmth of the ambient light in the small, wooden sauna.  
   
A towel is slung around Eames' hips so tight it makes Arthur want to loosen his own to ease the phantom pressure against his waist. Arthur already knows about Eames' tattoos, so it's amusing to watch Ariadne's eyes widen as she takes in the multitude of ink all over Eames arms and chest. Her gaze lingers and Arthur guesses she's trying to read the quotes spanning Eames' chest and hip. For a moment, he allows himself to be distracted by seeing them fully for the first time too, by the new ones that have appeared, and the ones he's never seen because he has never seen Eames in anything less than pants and an undershirt before. He takes in Eames' strong neck-muscles, chest covered with a light smattering of hair, and the muscles tensing and untensing under a wide expanse of lightly tanned skin that makes Arthur wonder where Eames has spent his time since Arthur last saw him.  
   
It's not a moment to appreciate Eames' body, though, because Eames stands in the door with his eyes closed and his jaw tense, breathing shallowly. The cooler air from the outside wafts in and makes goosebumps appear on Arthur's skin. He has an inkling how it must feel for Eames, facing his demons so quickly after the dream, and hates himself a little for going with Ariadne's suggestion of utilizing the sauna. He knows she's right, knows that Eames knows, but that doesn't make seeing how their intransigence affects Eames any easier.  
   
It's Ariadne who breaks the ice and moves in a show of the empathy Arthur has come to admire about her ever since Dom. She gets up from the bench she's sitting on, walks the two steps up to Eames, and takes his hand to pull him toward her, just a tiny nudge. He moves as though in trance, but his eyes open and his gaze zeroes in on Ariadne as though he's trying to anchor himself. She gives him a small smile.  
   
Arthur closes the door and takes a moment to look at them both, standing facing each other. Without boots and heels, Ariadne barely reaches Eames' chin. Wearing nothing but a bath-towel wrapped around her torso, with her hair trapped in a loose bun at the back of her head, she looks fragile and small next to Eames, even if Arthur knows that the look is deceiving. It should feel weird, being in this place with team members he has had the odd fantasy about showing so much exposed skin, it should have a much stronger sexual connotation to it, because despite Eames frequent jabs, Arthur is a red-blooded male and the two people standing in front of him are nothing shy of gorgeous.  
   
Presently, though, all he can think of is how Eames seems to be wearing the tattoos – all of them, the lady on his arm, the masks on his chest, the big Asian-looking symbol on his right bicep, the quote over his lower left abdomen that Arthur has never seen before, the symbol on his left shoulderblade – like armour, and how bizarre it was to see him without them in the dream, just how uneasy it had made Arthur. Maybe that already should have given him a clue that something was about to go wrong. A meticulous planning mind is one thing, but he's learned to go with his gut when it matters. His gut had told him to abort. He hadn't listened. Didn't know it mattered, and that's where this… _thing_ that he refuses to label, whatever it is between him and Eames, becomes problematic. It clouds his judgement, causes him to make wrong calls. People get hurt when he fails. The memory of the pool flashes bright and painful before his mind and he adds to himself, _he_ gets hurt, too.  
   
Eames sits down, stiff-legged, just on the corner of the lowest bench, ready to get up and run at any given minute. He keeps looking at the door and back to Ariadne like she's a tether to sanity and there is something so damn wrong about that that Arthur digs his hands into his thigh to keep himself from doing something stupid. Something like reach out and place his hand on Eames' shoulder.  
   
"It's not going to malfunction," Ariadne murmurs as she sits next to Eames, not in touching distance, but close enough so he can still see her from the corner of his eyes. There's barely any sweat on her skin yet, but she is flushed. Arthur feels the sauna's dry air press down on them like a heavy blanket. The first drops of sweat begin to form on his face and at the back of his neck.  
   
Eames snorts. His hands are clasped around each other, the knuckles white. "You tricked me in here, now you're going to have to live with me dealing with PTDSD."  
   
"PTDSD?" Ariadne echoes. A frown creases her brow.  
   
Arthur looks over to her and rubs his chin against his shoulder when the perspiration begins to tickle in the stubble he hasn't had the time to shave. "Post traumatic dream stress disorder," he supplies in a matter-of-fact voice.  
   
Ariadne's mouth forms an _oh_. She shifts on the bench, pulls her legs up so they're bent at the knees. Her small feet are close to Arthur now, silver-painted toenails mere inches from his towel. She has tiny toes and fragile-looking ankles, Arthur notices and surprises himself by wanting to span his hand around one. Unprofessional. So damn unprofessional. He climbs on the higher bench and lets the increased heat distract him. This is not the time. There will never be a time, any more than there will be with Eames.  
   
"Do you want to talk about it?" Ariadne asks and Arthur sees that she realises the minute it's out of her mouth that it's the lamest thing she has said in a good, long while. He fights a wince and slides his gaze to Eames.  
   
Eames' eyes close. "As much as a lobster wants to talk about being boiled to death."  
   
Eames doesn't know, _can't_ know, Arthur hasn't talked about what happened in the dream, but the uncanny precision with which Eames strikes dead-centre makes Arthur sway and bile rise in his throat. He tries to hide it by shifting his position on the bench, breathing deep and feeling the dry hot air sear along the inside of his nose.  
   
Eames rolls his shoulder to work out some kinks there and groans. Arthur hears a distinct crunch-pop noise. Sweat glistens on Eames' back and makes the tattoo appear alive. His knuckles are still white, but this time, his hands are clenched around the sauna's bench, as though he's holding on, trying very hard not to follow instinct and run out. If he claws into the wood any harder, he'll have splinters under his fingernails.  
   
"Ideally, this should be relaxing," Ariadne says and Arthur fights the urge to snort. He does look at her to raise an eyebrow, though, because that beats out her question in the stupid stakes. No one is relaxed right now, not even Ariadne, who keeps checking her towel – a towel that is wrapped so tightly around her torso that it accentuates the gentle swell of her breasts, the swell she keeps gliding her hand over to distribute the perspiration glistening there, something he's not sure she's even aware of but which is highly distracting – and curling her toes into the wooden bench.  
   
"I'm sure they told St. Lawrence the same thing when they put him on the gridiron," Eames mutters and brings Arthur's attention back to him. He's beginning to hate the rollercoaster of hyperawareness between the physical and the psychological.  
   
Despite the joke, Arthur sees that Eames is one breath away from bolting, wound so damn tight it looks like his tendons should twang, and Arthur hasn't a clue how to help him. He couldn't dive into a pool right now if his life depended on it; how they got Eames into this sauna is a miracle on the level of Eames' damned Catholic saints.  
   
Damn Saarela and his company and their paranoid counter-Somnacin drugs. He hates seeing Eames like this. Annoying Eames, flippant Eames, feckless and potentially untrustworthy Eames, Arthur can deal with all of these aspects perfectly well. Eames showing the hair line cracks that presage shattering is a disaster _he's responsible for_ : he's the point man, he should have had the proper background briefing and this would never have happened.  
   
"Try to relax, Eames," he says, for lack of anything better.  
   
Eames shoots him a bitter, disbelieving look. "Relax? Shall I lie down and have Ariadne give me a massage then?"  
   
It's quiet in the sauna for a few minutes, there's nothing but the sounds of their breathing and the gentle tick-tick-tick of the electric heater.  
   
"I could," Ariadne offers. "Maybe not a massage, but a backrub."  
   
Arthur's head snaps up; she sounds serious. He knows massage is a tried and tested method of helping patients with PTSD. Centering through touch. He wonders if it might work, if it's worth a shot.  
   
"It wouldn't hurt," Arthur says finally and finds himself at the focus of two surprised gazes.  
   
Another thing Arthur likes about Ariadne is that she doesn't wait forever to weigh options. So it doesn't surprise him when she climbs behind Eames and sets her hands on his shoulders. From his vantage point on the higher bench, Arthur sees just how small her hands are against Eames' shoulderblades, how pale against the dark blue tattoos. It's a striking contrast.  
   
She rests them there for a few long moments, allowing Eames to grow accustomed to her touch. Arthur watches as Eames bites his lip and tenses even more, as his breath picks up and Eames' head moves as though he's screwing his eyes shut and, he's afraid that Eames might lash out, but then Ariadne moves her hands in a slow, sure glide over skin and muscles in broad, sweeping strokes and Eames' posture relaxes, bit by bit.  
   
Ariadne works with a look of utter concentration on her face. A tendril of hair escapes from the loose bun she's put it into and curls along her neck. Arthur sees beads of sweat running down her spine and disappearing under the towel. She digs her thumbs in underneath Eames shoulderblade and he gives a quiet, guttural groan that settles in Arthur's belly like a punch. Ariadne makes a soft shushing noise and keeps gentling her hands over Eames' back. Watching it makes Arthur's skin sing with something that's too close to envy, no, _yearning_. He can't remember the last time he's been touched this way. Eames drops his chin to his chest and Arthur is distracted when he watches one single drop of perspiration roll down Eames' arm like a tear, over warmed skin and the face of a woman tattooed on Eames' right arm.  
   
Ariadne must feel Arthur's gaze and turns, her eyes dark and inquisitive. "What about you?" she mouths.  
   
He shakes his head. Damn it if he doesn't want to say yes. Damn him if he doesn't crave this. But he'll deal. After all, he was only boiled to death. Much easier to avoid pools. He doesn't need the same attention Eames is getting. Doesn't.  
   
Eames must have noticed a change in Ariadne's moves, though, because he raises his head and looks at Arthur over his shoulder, his gaze piercing and knowing. "Get down here," Eames says and it leaves no room for discussion.  
   
Arthur surprises himself by obeying without protest. It's cooler down here, but he feels his legs slide against one another as he moves, sweat slicking his skin. He wipes his right hand over his left arm and chest, spreading perspiration. Arthur settles next to Eames with a certain discomfort – the last bench is small, cramped, so they're sitting too close together. He closes his eyes and tries to blank his mind, tries to not anticipate. In the quiet, he hears their breathing, the sound of the heating and the quiet gliding noises of Ariadne's hands on Eames' back. The heat begins to loosen his stiff muscles. He rolls his shoulders, bends his neck to the side until something pops audibly and some of the pain in his neck lessens. Saarela's chair had been anything but comfortable.  
   
A touch against his shoulder has him tensing up in knots again. He hears a low, murmured, "Relax," that glides under his skin, then Eames' hands are on him, strong and determined, working their way from his shoulders to his neck. They stay at the juncture of neck and shoulder for a while, pressing and gliding, then they move upward, along the side of Arthur's neck and to his skull. Eames slides his fingertips into Arthur's hair and presses his thumbs against the base of Arthur's skull and he fights a sharp intake of breath at the sensation. Fingertips press against his scalp, against the curve of his head; small but determined movements that make scritching noises as Eames increases the pressure. The sensation has goosebumps skittering over Arthur's skin, goosebumps that are caught by a new touch as Ariadne's hand settles on his shoulder to slide up and down as though gentling a spooked animal. Arthur feels trapped and soothed at the same time, pulls his legs up to rest his forehead on his knees. Eames is close to him, closer even than Ariadne, and despite the towel in front of his face Arthur smells the remnants of aftershave and of Ariadne's shampoo along with the dry wood of the sauna. For a while he just floats, caught between relaxation and need gnawing at his insides, their hands on him while his heart pumps faster and faster. He holds himself in place with the idea that this is helping Eames, distracting Eames, giving him something to focus on, even while his own fractures.  
   
Sweat rolls down his spine, while Eames' moist breath – too close, too intimate – heats it even more and it's when his mind conjures up Eames' lips pressing against his spine to catch a drop of sweat on its path, Arthur knows this has gone too far.  
   
He stands abruptly, reaches for the door. "Too hot," he murmurs and walks out. He tells himself he's not running away as he rips off the towel and steps under the cold shower, refuses to take care of the prominent sign of his arousal. He rests his head against the cold tile of the shower stall. Water pounds on his back, frigid and uncomfortable. He doesn't want it any different. Needs the icy reminder of reality. He bumps his head against the tile a couple of times, lets the pain ground him. "Fuck," he whispers. "Fuck, fuck, _fuck_."  
   
He's already dressed again when the door to the sauna creaks and Eames walks out.  
 

***

   
Once again dressed and several glasses of water later, they call Yusuf.  
   
The video chat connection is slow, but good enough to show the man on the other end of the camera is sick. Very sick. He looks pale, sweaty, and weak and Eames regrets having called him immediately.  
   
"I hope," Yusuf says and pushes a shock of sweaty hair from his forehead, " you know that it's only professional curiosity that made me take this call."  
   
"And here I thought our life-long friendship had earned me some benefits," Eames says and sidles close enough to Arthur so he can be seen from Yusuf's end, too.  
   
"Your face alone should make me hang up," Yusuf retorts. "Lifelong friendship, my arse."  
   
"And yet it doesn't," Eames remarks with a smirk. "Did you miss me?"  
   
"Like a hole in the head." Yusuf rolls his eyes but smirks in return. It does nothing to hide the pain-lines edged around his eyes. "Now, tell me about that problem of yours." He settles back against his pillow. "But make it quick, my attention span isn't up to long stories." Eames suffered from Dengue once when he was in Bangladesh and he remembers the symptoms too well to mock Yusuf now.  
   
Arthur leans forward just as Eames is about to open his mouth. "We encountered a subject dosed with a Somnacin antagonist."  
   
Eames snaps his mouth shut. _That'll do_ , he thinks. _Always the concise one, our Arthur._  
   
On the laptop screen, Yusuf winces. "Did you find out before or after you went under?"  
   
"After." Arthur rubs a hand over his arm as though chasing away goosebumps, making Eames wonder once more what had happened outside the sauna in the dream.  
   
"Ouch." Yusuf looks sympathetic. Yeah. If anyone would know about experiments gone wrong, it'd be him. "Bad?"  
   
"Worse," Eames answers in Arthur's place.  
   
"So why don't you hightail out of there?"  
   
"Why should we?" Ariadne gets up from her chair and walks toward the laptop so Yusuf can see her as well.  
   
"Oh, hi there!" Yusuf gives her a weak wave, then looks at Arthur. "Getting the band back together, eh?"  
   
From the corner of his eyes, Eames sees Ariadne smile and return the wave. "You know they can't be left to their own devices," she says in a stage whisper.  
   
Yusuf snorts a laugh. "I'd say."  
   
"So," Ariadne says, proving she hasn't forgotten Yusuf's earlier remark, "why should we hightail? An antagonist can't be that dangerous, can it?"  
   
"It's not so much the antagonist as the people who have it."  
   
"Meaning?"  
   
Yusuf sits up straighter and it's visible how much that costs him. "Look, an antagonist is really difficult to make. We're talking cutting edge chemistry here. There are only a few people worldwide who know how to make it – yours truly included – and most of them aren't on the free market."  
   
"Well, these people are," Arthur says and it's a little too fast, the explanation sounds a little too rehearsed. "They're just people with too much money and access to everything they want to buy. Which, this time, includes us."  
   
Arthur's face betrays nothing, it's smooth and passive and just a little disgusted, and Eames sees the ruse work on both Yusuf and Ariadne. It just doesn't work on him. There's more, a lot more, which Arthur isn't disclosing. He knows this extraction isn't corporate, now, if he didn't know before.  
   
"So now you need a compound to slip underneath the antagonist's radar?" Yusuf asks.  
   
"Yes," Arthur answers.  
   
"It would be easier if I had access to the antagonist."  
   
"We don't have it right now."  
   
"But, let me guess, you need the compound yesterday?"  
   
"Pretty much," Arthur acknowledges.  
   
"It's a bit of a tight schedule."  
   
"Tell us something we don't know."  
   
"No getting cheeky with the man who's saving your arses."  
   
"So you have something?"  
   
Yusuf leans back and crosses his arms over his chest. Even sick, he manages to look smug beyond belief. " _Please_."  
 

***

   
They don't talk about what happened in the sauna. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Eames is back to his usual flippant, joking self, even if Arthur notices that it's missing the usual zing.  
   
Eames watches Arthur thoughtfully through the rest of the day, an amount of attention that makes Arthur's skin crawl but he only speaks after dinner, when they have the beginning of a second plan sketched out and Ariadne is bent over a sketch book, creating a preliminary maze.  
   
"Didn't take you for the espionage type, Arthur."  
   
Arthur looks up from his laptop and frowns. "Extraction is primarily corporate espionage work." He makes a face. "With the exception of jealous wives and husbands wanting proof of infidelity."  
   
"Divorce work." Eames makes a face back; they share a moment of mutual disgust.  
   
Arthur returns his attention to digging deeper into Saarela's on-line life, looking for a clue to a interest they can use to design the new dream venue. Saarela's subconscious will be alerted to any dream that mimics a relaxing day off now. Even a day at work is too close for Arthur's comfort. They will need to structure a more symbolic dream this time, but something Saarela might in fact dream about.  
   
Eames watches him, then wanders around behind Arthur, before leaning over his shoulder to look at the screen. He rests on hand on Arthur's shoulder, casually; it means nothing. His breath warms Arthur's cheek.  
   
"This isn't corporate espionage, is it?" Eames' voice is low enough so Ariadne doesn't hear him, intimate because of it. "You heard what Yusuf said."  
   
Arthur fights the urge to tense but fails. "I don't know what you mean."  
   
Of course, Eames can _feel_ even Arthur's slight tensing beneath his hand.  
   
"I know you like doing it, but please don't insult my intellect when it actually matters." Eames pulls a chair and sits next to Arthur, pins him with a pointed look. "I recognise the signs."  
   
"How would you know the signs?" Arthur snaps.  
   
"Not denying it, then?" Eames asks with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Eames laces his fingers and leans back in the chair, stretching out his legs. "I still have some friends with my old employers."  
   
Arthur turns his chair and looks at Eames through narrowed eyes. "Old employers?" In all the background checks he's done on Eames, there had been nothing about... anything much at all, Arthur realises. He has never done more than a cursory check on Eames and it strikes him again how little he really knows about Eames. The things he thinks he knows are likely as 'forged' as the seductresses Eames specialises in in dreams. Arthur had followed Dom’s lead when he told him to trust Eames. Is it time to regret that blind trust?  
   
"Quit climbing the walls," Eames tells him with a half-smirk. " _You're_ paying me now."  
   
But Arthur does worry, because the niggling doubts he's felt since Eames invited himself into this op suddenly add up to a something that leaves a horrible taste in his mouth. To Eames working for someone else – first. The thought is nauseating, ramps up Arthur's stress levels another notch.  
   
"Who are you loyal to?" Arthur demands and has to curl his hands around the arms of his chair to not reach out and grab the lapels of Eames' shirt.  
   
Eames widens his eyes in mock shock. "Why, myself, dear," he answers and crosses his legs at the ankles, looking for all the world like a big, lazy cat, "myself, of course."  
   
He's a fucking brilliant actor, because he actually looks innocent, put out that Arthur could ask him this. Arthur wants to slap him. Eames had seemed open and vulnerable earlier; now the walls are back up and Arthur can't get behind them at all, can't see behind them and it's driving him insane.  
   
"Not good enough," he tells Eames. Arthur's already tense thanks to the pressure from the client, needing to lie to Eames and Ariadne, the little slip-up in the sauna, but he's close to snapping now, like a guitar string that's been stretched too tight.  
   
Eames taps his thumbs together and gives him a fleeting smirk. "It's the best you'll get. Take it or leave it. Or would you like to tell me more about this client of ours?"  
   
 _Fuck_ , Arthur thinks. _Fuck_. His mind feels like it's being compressed from the pressure that is being applied from all sides. A piercing headache settles behind his forehead.  
   
"Could you keep it down, boys?" Ariadne calls from where she's bent over a sketchbook. "Some of us are trying to work here."  
   
Arthur rises from his chair, snaps the laptop shut. "I'm going out," he announces.  
   
Ariadne looks up, surprised. "Where to? I thought you were trailing Saarela online?"  
   
"Eames can do it. I've had enough of Tweets for a day. I'm going to trail him in real life."  
   
Eames tuts in disapproval. "Putting the lesser work on the grunts? Not very nice, Arthur."  
   
"You consider yourself a grunt?"  
   
"I consider myself the mastermind of this little operation, which is why I'm out of here as well."  
   
"And where are you going?" Ariadne asks, now crossing her arms over her chest. She looks put out, her mouth is pulled into a pout.  
   
"Places," is Eames cryptic reply before he pushes up from the chair and walks out.  
   
Once he's out of the hotel room, Arthur beats his fist against the wall of the empty staircase hard enough to make his wrist scream in protest, then rests his head against the cool wall . He needs to get this situation under control. Quickly.  
 

***

   
Once again, Arthur doesn't sleep that night, too keyed up wondering if Yusuf's delivery will get to them on time to start their test-runs. After going without sleep for as long as he has at this point, his mind feels sluggish and his body like a burden.  
   
Arthur hasn't bought uppers in years. Mainly because he has seen other extractors unable to fight the addiction, watched them turn into pale, hyperactive shadows of themselves, but he can't afford to have his mind and body lag behind.  
   
He's just coming out of a pharmacy when his private phone signals the arrival of a text message from a number he doesn't recognise. No one but Dom, Ariadne and Eames have this number. Arthur doesn't have to wonder who it's from.  
   
It's just an address. Nothing else. Arthur feels the weight of the small bottle in his pocket and irrationally wonders if Eames timed the arrival of the text message. He dry-swallows the pill already in his hand.  
   
When he looks up the location, he realises that it's just on the outskirts of Seinäjoki, with nothing but forest and farmland around for miles.  
   
Arthur gets there half an hour later after driving along roads lined with trees and sparse grass that remind him of Michigan. It's too far out, he's wasting time here he could use otherwise, and he's thrumming with impatience. Or maybe that's the uppers talking. Whatever, Eames had damn well better have a good reason to call him here. When he pulls into the dirt road and finds his destination, he rolls his eyes. One run-down place in a town that's scarily neat otherwise. Trust Eames to find it if it exists.  
   
Arthur leaves the key in the ignition and gets out. The small, new model, black Toyota looks out of place in the proximity to this ageing, run down factory building.  
   
Eames appears from behind a low-ceilinged, greying brick building, the sunlight outlining him, making Arthur squint. The loose metal roof rattles in the breeze. Crickets chirp. The smell of dry grass is heavy in the air. The sun is too bright here and he has no damn sunglasses.  
   
Eames looks perfectly at ease and quips a stereotypical, "You're late." He looks pointedly at his pocket watch, tuts at Arthur – and Arthur sees red. He's had enough of this fucking cat and mouse game that Eames has been playing since he first called Arthur in London. There's no one around to witness his lapse, so he lets go of his composure and shoves Eames. Hard.  
   
Eames staggers back against the wall, surprised. It doesn't take long, though, he plasters a grin on his face all too soon. "If you wanted to play rough, all you had to do was ask, darling."  
   
Arthur balls his hands into fists. It takes all his willpower to stop himself from hitting Eames, smashing his fist right into that grin.  
   
"Shut up and tell me why we're here. Why _you're_ here. Why the hell do you know so much about this job? Who's your source?"  
   
Eames twitches an eyebrow. "Would you like me to answer chronologically or alphabetically?"  
   
Arthur hits him then. Right then, right into that fucking grin and he's not fighting the dark satisfaction he feels when he sees that Eames teeth must have broken skin. His hand hurts but he doesn't care. Eames had it coming, a long time coming.  
   
"Would you prefer answers or do you want to let your inner caveman out a bit longer?" Eames asks, dabbing a tissue to his lip. "I'm sure he feels uncomfortable in these suits."  
   
Arthur considers smashing Eames' teeth in, body already tense and ready to pounce, but Eames' wince when he presses the tissue a little too hard against his lower lip, lifts some of the red haze around Arthur.  
   
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Maybe the amphetamine hadn't been such a good idea, after all.  
   
He backs off, leans against the wall and closes his eyes. "Would it kill you to be serious for once?"  
   
Arthur is tired. So fucking tired the field around him feels as though it's slowly rotating. The feeling of vertigo is bad enough that he plants both feet heavier on the ground than before and slits his eyes open.  
   
"I never tried so I wouldn't know," Eames says and it's a testament to just how tired Arthur is that it takes him a while to realise Eames is answering his question. "Would you like me to try?"  
   
Eames turns to him while stuffing the tissue into his jacket pocket. Arthur sees specks of coppery red on it and sudden guilt churns in his stomach.  
   
"Would it make a difference?" he asks. The wall is rough where he digs his fingers into it.  
   
Eames cocks an eyebrow. "You never know if you never try."  
   
"Are you offering to be honest?"  
   
"Are you asking me to be?"  
   
Arthur exhales explosively. Frustration makes him want to lash out again. "Will we ever stop playing games?"  
   
"Do you want to?"  
   
Arthur clenches his fists against the new rage bubbling up. He's tired. Tired of this, too.  
   
"Why are you here?"  
   
"Maybe I missed you."  
   
"Maybe you're lying."  
   
"Maybe I am."  
   
Arthur's jaw tenses. Eames offered to be honest, right? But can he be? What if he's honest now? What if the lie is the truth? Or if the truth is the lie? What if his earlier assumption is right and Eames works for someone else, what if Eames is here to spy on them, what if he has some kind of hidden agenda?  
   
"Oh, Arthur, come on." Eames sounds amused and exasperated at the same time. "You know you can trust me." He looks too fucking sincere to be lying, but Eames is a forger, he lies professionally and Arthur feels the ground disintegrating beneath his feet. A week ago, he would have answered Eames' question with a yes, but he's no longer sure.  
   
"Can I?" he asks and captures Eames' gaze.  
   
Something flickers through Eames eyes, he narrows them, frowns. "Arthur, you wound me." He looks like he means it.  
   
"Dom trusted you," Arthur says by way of explanation.  
   
"But Dom's not here and you're asking yourself why you should," Eames finishes for him. A smile ghosts over his face. "Mal always said you were the suspicious one."  
   
Arthur's whole body tenses. This is a fucking low blow not worthy of even Eames. "Mal?" he echoes, louder than necessary. "You only met Cobb after her death. How the hell would you – "  
   
"Oh, I did," Eames agrees.  
   
"Then how the _fuck_ – "  
   
He doesn't get any farther, Eames interrupts him again. "Imagination, Arthur." Eames' smile is wistful now. "It's what Mal and I had in common. It's what Dom was jealous of."  
   
A fierce headache suddenly pounds Arthur's brain against his skull with so much force he's surprised his teeth don't rattle. The assumptions he's had about Eames, everything Dom has told him about the other man… It could be wrong. All of it.  
   
Arthur reaches up to press his thumb and his ring finger against the outsides of his eyebrows to quell the debilitating pain. He hadn't done an in-depth check on Eames back then because he trusted Dom – or rather, couldn't _not_ trust him even when he didn't. After Mal's death, he didn't allow himself doubts about Dom anymore. Not after his own role in the whole damn mess. So, of course, he had trusted Dom when Dom brought Eames in on a job with a curt, "He's the best," and had answered Arthur's careful question about how he knew that with a tense, "I know him." It was enough then. It had to be. Arthur never had any reason to doubt while Dom was around.  
   
But Dom isn't here. And if Eames isn't lying, then Dom _was_ and fuck, _fuck_ , he doesn't need this on top of everything else.  
   
"I take it you know a different version of the story?" Eames asks with a knowing look.  
   
Arthur eases the pressure of his fingers, scrubs his hand over his face. "Never mind." He brings up his walls, the ones that Eames so expertly crumbles when he gets close and vows to dig up everything he can about Eames. Dom has blindsided him long enough.  
   
"Why did you want to meet here?" he diverts Eames attention. Or at least, he tries to. Eames' eyes are sharp as a hawk's, Arthur is certain that Eames catalogued every single sign of weakness he showed earlier and filed it away just like he does when studying a person he wants to forge.  
   
Surprisingly, Eames humours him. "It seemed prudent to have a place where we wouldn't be under the constant watchful eyes of hotel staff. Too many people to ask about our comings and goings."  
   
"Suspicious, Mr. Eames?"  
   
"I have trust issues," Eames deadpans, and Arthur almost chokes on the breath he's just drawn. Eames flashes him a grin, short and brilliant and oh so fake.  
   
Arthur crosses his arms over his chest and gives Eames an arch look. "I suggest a therapist."  
   
"I'm not American."  
   
"You don't say."  
   
"As delightful as this banter is, would you like to see why we're here?"  
   
The need to strangle Eames comes back, paired with the need to point out that Arthur just asked him this mere minutes ago. Arthur does neither. Instead, he uncrosses his arms. "After you."  
   
This time, Eames' smile is real. 


	4. Lull

Back in the hotel room, Ariadne watches Arthur come awake with a snap. He rips the velcro band off his wrist. Blood wells where the needle has left a puncture mark. "Crap," he hisses. "All crap."   
   
"That's compound number two out of three now," Eames states, coming out of the dream as well. He looks stressed, just like Arthur. "We're running out of supplies."   
   
"What's wrong?" Ariadne asks.   
   
"The dreams are unstable as hell. Shallow. The slightest movement, the merest twitch, and the dream collapses."   
   
"It's a lot less manoeuvrable, too, harder to shape," Arthur adds and runs a hand through his hair.   
   
Ariadne contemplates them both, chews on her bottom lip. She's been wondering about something since they first went under, but she wasn't sure. It's become clearer now, though, and, besides, they don't have a lot of options, do they?   
   
"Are you sure," she starts, clears her throat and tries again. "Are you sure it's the compound?"   
   
Two gazes snap to her. Her shoulders tense.   
   
"What do you mean?" Arthur asks. His eyes are narrowed.   
   
Ariadne squares her shoulders. "Are you sure it's the compound that's causing the problem? Or is it the human factor?"   
   
"What are you saying?" Eames asks as well, even though Ariadne sees that he knows exactly what she's getting at.   
   
"You need a break, is what I'm saying." She continues before either man can interrupt her. "I don't know what happened when you were under, except for Eames' little hint earlier, but I've watched you since you woke up. I hate to state the obvious, but you're not up to dreaming right now. You need a break."   
   
She's met with tense silence for a couple of seconds but refuses to back down.   
   
Eventually, Arthur shakes his head. "We have no time for R&R."   
   
"You have no time for failures, either."   
   
She watches little blotches of red appear from underneath his collar and on his cheekbones. "So what are you suggesting?" he asks silkily. "A little trip to Hawaii, get a nice tan going, come back and finish the job? I'm sure the clients will be very understanding."   
   
His words grate, even though she knows why he's stressed. It doesn't mean she has to put up his attitude. "You know what my grandma would have said? You can take that tone and stuff it where the sun don't shine," she shoots back. From the corner of her eye, she sees Eames give her an amused look she decides to ignore for the moment. She puts her hands on her hips and engages in a staring match with Arthur. "You know I'm right."   
   
Arthur holds her stare for a minute, then whirls around, gives Eames an imploring look. "Eames!"   
   
Eames shrugs. "You know she's right." He looks tired and worn out. "We could both do with at least a day of not going under."   
   
"We don't have the _time_ ," Arthur repeats, hands thrown up in the air in an exasperated gesture. "Don't you understand?"   
   
"We have enough other prep to do up here," Eames reminds him. "And, frankly, Arthur, when have you last slept more than 15 minutes at a time?"   
   
From Arthur's looks, Ariadne wagers a guess that it's been several days, if not a week.   
   
"I don't see how that's relevant." Arthur says while he rolls up the lines of the PASIV.   
   
"It's relevant for that answer alone." Eames rises from the chair, takes the PASIV. "Ariadne can work on inspirations for her design, we can run some more background checks on our subject and, in the meantime, I declare a PASIV break for at least two days."   
   
Arthur looks mulish, he has his arms crossed over his chest but she sees that his protest is just a front. "You're insane."   
   
"No," Ariadne answers, "just pragmatic."   
   
Eames claps a companionable hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Aren't you glad you have us on board?"  
 


	5. All Out Of Faith

The Alvar Aalto center is the perfect place to find inspiration on the Finnish style.  
   
Of course, Ariadne's classes in college have dealt with Aalto, but it's something else altogether to be standing in front of the buildings instead of watching them on a screen or seeing them in a book. Seinäjoki, as small and unimportant as it may be, boasts one of Aalto's most important creations. The Aalto center is composed of six buildings, completed between 1960 and 1968. Their lines are clean and simple, timeless, even; they form a perfect meeting place for the administrative and cultural parts of the city's life. The fact that all buildings in the center are designed by the same architect, and were even been built in the same time period, makes Seinäjoki's architecture special, rare not only in Finland but internationally too.  
   
Aalto designed every last detail in this area, from the gigantic Lakeuden Risti church, the Cross on the Plain, to the granite slates and dice stones on the civic square connecting the buildings. It fascinates Ariadne that one architect left his mark here so completely. Aalto's first building was the Staff building of the Civil Guard, inaugurated in 1925. The fact that most of the other buildings have been brought into existence in the same city almost 40 years later speaks of Aalto's fondness for this city. It also showcases the architect's classical period and shows the way his style evolved and…  
   
Ariadne realises that she's geeking out and doesn't care in the least. Dream architecture is where she really sees her future but that doesn't make her immune to the great masters who have inspired her before. It's an old love affair, and one she will never be completely indifferent about. She doubts she could make either Eames or Arthur understand this completely, so she's glad she has this morning to herself. Mainly, of course, she's here to do some research she can't do online, but if she's honest, she enjoys the chance of getting out by herself and seeing this place with her own eyes. She's been afraid she'd have to leave and not see anything of the city. Arthur is a slavedriver when he wants to be, and he's been extremely tense these past few days, so she's glad he agreed to drop her off here and give her the chance to explore the area by herself. She gives him a small wave when she passes him where he's sitting by the side of the fountain with his laptop and a Styrofoam cup of coffee.  
   
It was good to see him laugh over the Indian Food Incident, IFI, as he has started to call it to rile Eames. On her way her hostel last night, while trying to distract herself from imagining what had happened to Eames in the dream, she'd wondered if she'd ever seen Arthur give a full-blown laugh. She honestly couldn't remember. She still can't.  
   
Maybe their company _is_ good for him. She grins to herself, pops a sticky hard candy she bought from a street vendor earlier in her mouth and walks into the library.  
   
The inside of it is bright without the aid of artificial light; the sloping fan-shaped window lets a lot of natural light filter in and throws heavy shadows on the curved, lowered ceiling that's only held up by a couple of slim columns. White walls and wood dominate the library but it's strangely warm nevertheless – maybe it's just the smell of books that she loves so much. Ariadne is suddenly thrown back into her childhood, into spending hours and hours curled in a comfortable chair in the college library while her mother worked her way through her PhD thesis. The libraries of her childhood had had comfortable, dark carpets and small green-shaded lamps that gave a warm glow when the light outside faded.  
   
Seinäjoki's library boasts gleaming hardwood floors and a curved counter that makes the room almost look organic, gentle despite its otherwise stark appearance somehow. Ariadne breathes deep and looks around. There is no extraneous detail, everything is in place, both functional and beautiful without pretention. _This_ is what architecture should be like. She can't help but snap a couple of pictures with her phone.  
   
The librarian who entered the main reading hall behind her with an armful of books just smiles at her, obviously used to this kind of behaviour. "You'll have a better view if you move a little more to the left," she says in fluent English.  
   
Ariadne smiles back, thanks her. She snaps another picture and, on a whim, sends it to Eames.  
   
She receives a message in return only a few minutes later. The picture shows a half-eaten ice-cream cone and the words: "Your idea of fun, my idea of fun." Ariadne tries to fight the laughter bubbling up but fails.  
   
The librarian smiles at her again, then points toward a sign over the entrance. No mobile phones. This time, Ariadne fights a blush and shuts the phone off quickly on a muttered apology.  
 

***

   
Eames gets the call when he's just reached the very bottom of the cone and the melting remnants of hazelnut ice cream drip down his index finger.  
   
"Yes," he answers while still licking his fingers. He lets go of his index finger with a wet, audible _plop_.  
   
"I see the manners haven't improved?" a woman with a broad Fife accent asks, amused.  
   
"But you like scoundrels, Suz," Eames smiles.  
   
"I happen to like nice men."  
   
They go through the _Star Wars_ dialogue as easily as they used to years ago when they still worked together and Eames can't help smiling wider. He misses Suz sometimes. Not enough to go back, but enough to consider it from time to time.  
   
"What can I do for you, my little jock?"  
   
Her huff of laughter is accompanied by a burst of static through the line. "Before you keep insulting my country, better ask me what I can do for you."  
   
"And what would that be?" The smile slips, though he still keeps the tone right. There's something about this unexpected call that he doesn't like.  
   
"Remember the little architecture student you asked me to run a background check on a couple of months ago?"  
   
"Vaguely?"  
   
"Oh, give me some credit, Eames."  
   
He rolls his shoulders. She just knows him too well, and you don't play with a woman like Suz. Even on a bad day, she could kick his arse halfway from Scotland to Wales. "Fine. Yes."  
   
"What happened to her? Did she work with you? She's suddenly showing up on a top secret international wanted list."  
   
Something cold trickles down Eames' back. He doesn't need to ask Suz why she called him. They have an unspoken agreement she's never once let him down on. He walks away from the crowd on the marketplace to a quieter side-street. "Do they say why?"  
   
"They mention a connection to your current partner."  
   
"Which list?"  
   
"Intelligence."  
   
" _Suz_."  
   
She laughs at his tone. "Conglomerate of Japanese and US, I believe."  
   
Damn _it, Arthur._  
   
"Did you see anything else?"  
   
"Just her name on the list. You seemed to have taken an interest in her, so I figured I'd let you know sooner rather than later."  
   
Eames' muscles tense all at once, he needs to get out of here immediately and find Ariadne. "Ta, Suz."  
   
"I'm still waiting for that 1926 Macallan you promised me."  
   
He nods, his mind already five steps away from the conversation. "When I'm in town next."  
   
She snorts and hangs up. They both know he'll never be 'in town' again since his name and face took a prominent spot on several SIS person of interest lists. He knows he can count on her nevertheless.  
   
Eames calls Ariadne and gets her voicemail, a short but cheerful note telling him to leave a message. He's about a twenty minute walk from the library. Too long.  
   
It's instinct, but he's never had it fool him before and he knows that something just isn't right here.  
   
He calls Arthur.  
 

***

   
The plan was to come here to do some research on Finland and find inspiration for her design. Instead, Ariadne's intent on the book of architectural renderings, a rare edition she hasn't been able to lay her hands on in Paris, so geeked out and happy about it that she doesn't notice the two men approaching until on of them is right behind her. She smells aftershave and leather.  
   
Ariadne frowns. She knows she demands more personal space than the average European, even after spending a year in Paris, but this guy is way too close even for European standards. She looks up from the book and starts to twist and say something to him when she feels something pushed hard into her ribs. Ariadne swipes at it, wonders if the guy tripped or is just a regular bully.  
   
She still hasn't identified what it is when a low voice rasps in her ear. "Slow and easy. Put the book down and get up. This is a gun. It's silenced, since this is a library. If you struggle no one will hear the shot that takes you out."  
   
Her heart skips a beat; another, then starts beating twice as forceful again. Oh, god. Her head spins as mindless panic begins to surface. The book blurs before her eyes. Oh, god, that's the muzzle of the gun, right there between her ribs. No, the silencer, she realises, picturing one from any of the innumerable movies she's seen. This is insane. It can't be happening. Not here, not now, not to her. She begins to shake. Remembers Arthur sitting in front of the library, just a couple dozen feet away, but now as good as on the other side of the ocean.  
   
"Just come with us, miss."  
   
"What do you – "  
   
More pressure against her ribcage. "We don't intend to hurt you but we will. So just come with us." The man's voice is calm, much too calm for this situation.  
   
Ariadne doesn't dare look up, but she looks to the librarian, shoots her a terrified glance only to realise that another man is talking to the librarian, drawing her attention away.  
   
She's beginning to hyperventilate and when she does rise from her chair, her legs feel like lead. The man next to her lowers the gun when he senses her moment of weakness, clamps his hand around her wrist and it's in that moment that her half-forgotten self-defence training, from the class her mother made her take before she left for Europe, kicks in.  
   
She's not been in the business long to know anything, much less plan an escape, but she has always been a fast thinker and a fast runner. So she ends up doing what comes naturally, what her teacher drilled into her. She rotates her thumb up and pulls her elbow toward her, effectively breaking the man's hold on her wrist. She ducks, clenches her hands around the back of the chair she'd been sitting on, then moves, lightning-quick, and lifts the chair, gets some space between her and the man, wheels around, swings and slams it into the man's face and chest with a dull thud. She's vaguely away of the spurt of blood and the groan of pain he gives, of the dismayed cry of the librarian, but all she really cares about is that for a precious few seconds, she's surprised them into motionlessness and that's when she runs.  
   
Ariadne dodges around rows of books and students milling between the shelves, trying to cover as much ground as possible while at the same time getting out of the line of sight. The librarian shouts suddenly, tries to step in Ariadne's path, but Ariadne just shoulders her out of the way, the strength of fear at her disposal. She runs, her blood pumping, rushing in her ears so she's deaf to almost everything else. She hesitates for an agonising moment to look for Arthur. Oh, god, this can't be fucking happening, she's going to kill Arthur for not being where he said he'd be, but she has no time, no time, _no fucking time,_ so she starts running again, shouts behind her and the heavy clattering of shoes against slate. She turns, can't stop herself just like Lot's wife and sees two men running toward her, huge steps and dark clothes and she curses, runs at full speed toward the used book carts in front of the library, dodges them at the very last second and pushes them over behind her with a crash.  
 

***

   
The Seinäjoki municipal library offers free Wi-Fi and it extends to the public square around it, so Arthur sits in the sun in front of it on a bench, laptop on his knees and a paper cup of coffee next to him.  
   
The laptop is one of many he bought for this job. He doesn't store any data on it, has everything backed up on several untraceable accounts in a Cloud. Should the laptop get stolen or should he have to leave it, it won't matter. The browser history wipes itself clean after every use and there is nothing else to leave a trace to him. It's a paranoid, expensive indulgence, but he's paid well and setting up work is never cheap. The workshop Eames showed him isn't going to be cheap, either, and Arthur knows he's paying for that, too. It feels like he's bleeding money, but he appreciates Eames' caution even if he doesn't trust his motives.  
   
His research on the mark is long done and he's using the time he has left until he picks Ariadne up to make good on his promise to himself to dig into Eames' past a little more. It's just a precaution, so he wonders why the hell it makes him feel as guilty as it does.  
   
Arthur's phone rings when he's just hacked his way into the third top-secret database to find information about Eames. Seeing Eames' phone-number when he's just found Eames' name on a list it shouldn't be on at all makes him flinch hard enough to knock over the coffee cup.  
   
"Arthur, where's Ariadne?" Eames asks without waiting for Arthur to even acknowledge him. Eames' voice is clipped and tight.  
   
"At the library, where she's – "  
   
"Have you seen her?"  
   
"I've seen her step into it, all geeked out about it, I'm sure – "  
   
"Where _is_ she, Arthur?"  
   
Something in Eames' voice grabs Arthur by the neck with icy fingers. Eames' instinct is the one thing Arthur has never doubted. His stomach bottoms out. His scalp begins to prickle. For a long moment, his thoughts stutter to a stop, his brain fizzes like a torn electricity cable, he can't move and can't think.  
   
"Arthur!" Eames voice snaps him out of the fugue.  
   
Catching himself, Arthur closes the laptop with a snap. "What do you know?"  
   
"She's not answering her phone. Do you see her?"  
   
In a moment of relieved pissed-offness, Arthur realises that Eames is being paranoid. "She's in a library, Eames. No phones allowed."  
   
"She knows never to switch it off completely. Just like you." Eames sounds clipped and precise now, the gentle London lilt of his voice giving way to something cold. "Do you _see_ her?"  
   
"Of course I don't fucking see her, Eames, I – "  
   
He doesn't finish the sentence because right in that moment, the library's door crashes open and Ariadne comes running from it, her eye wide with panic, like a gazelle in flight. It takes no more than three seconds for two men to come running after her. Arthur sees the unmistakeable shape of gun-holsters under their jackets.  
 

***

   
Voices scream angry and metal clangs against the floor but the sound of feet becomes less pronounced once Ariadne has dumped the book cart. The public square that connects the buildings of the Aalto centre is too big, though, she's never going to make it, all they need to do is shoot to take her down.  
   
A group of teenagers crosses her path, she bumps into one of the kids when she barrels through them, hears a few universal dirty words, but her brain kicks in quickly enough that she stops and apologises, hides in the group for a few moments until someone grabs her arm and yanks her bodily way from the group. She's out of breath and exhausted from the unexpected run but still gets in an evasive manoeuvre, struggles free on a muted scream until she hears a sharp, "Ariadne!"  
   
Arthur. She doesn't think she's ever been so happy to see him before in her life.  
   
He pulls her into a small alley between the library and the theatre, then guides her up to the doors of the theatre. The entrance hall is empty, save for the staff members setting up signs for the annual summer theatre event.  
   
A voice asks a question out of nowhere, nothing but a jumble of vowels and Ariadne flinches when a staffer suddenly stands in her way with a half-questioning, half-smiling face.  
   
She nods out of instinct, out of breath, even if she has no real clue what the question was. Nodding is always good, right? She trusts Arthur. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees people running and pointing outside. She spots a sign she hopes is leading to a stage and gestures for Arthur to follow her.  
   
Arthur says something to the staffer while Ariadne's already starting up the stairs, and soon, his steps echo on the staircase and he's beside her again.  
   
"First door on the left," she says.  
   
The stage is small and dark, offers no place to hide and a group of what Ariadne guesses are students rehearsing for a play. Several look up once, but the rest ignore Arthur and Ariadne completely, too engrossed in their play. Their presence is dismissed almost immediately.  
   
She's ready to run out again to find some kind of damn broom cupboard to hide in when Arthur pulls her with him, to the front row of the theatre, then between the benches. He drops, first to a crouch, gestures to the one student who does look down, places his index finger over his lips and Ariadne hopes that the dreadlocked boy will understand.  
   
The next thing she knows is that Arthur throws a last look to the stage-room's door and then stretches out so he's lying between the benches. She shoots him an incredulous look, her mind supplies uselessly that he looks pale against the dark carpet and black leather seats, then the door creaks and she goes down without thinking, lands half on top of Arthur, half to his side. His hand slides around her waist to steady her, his grip stronger than necessary. He catches her gaze, holds it and wills her to be quiet with just the thinning of his lips. She doesn't need to be told that, though it is difficult to calm her breathing. She tries to hold her breath, realises she can't because her lungs burn and scream at her, then tries to breathe as quietly as possible, all the while looking at Arthur rather than the seats around him.  
   
The door flies open with a bang and the rehearsal on the stage stops. Ariadne winces, reaches for Arthur, claws her hand into his shoulder and wonders if he went mad. They'll find them here if just one of the students rats them out. She swears her breathing is too loud, there's no way her pursuers won’t hear it. They’ll catch her because she can’t calm the fuck down and all her damn running will have been for nothing. She's not going to faint, she won't, but blood is pumping so fast in her veins that she has trouble concentrating on anything else, close enough to a panic attack that she can already taste it, the repugnant smack of stained steel.  
   
Arthur shakes his head minutely, keeps holding her gaze, holding her steady, and she holds on to that gaze like a lifeline, drowns out the sounds and concentrates on nothing but the shape and colour of his eyes, the first fine lines around them, the length of his lashes. It's better than listening to the screaming panic that's trying to drown over her. She ends up cataloguing all the points of contact between their bodies just to distract herself though, just to fight down the need to scream.  
   
His body cushions her and his arm holds her tight. His hand – slim, she knows, because she's stared at his long pianist's fingers in moments of fatigue – is pressed just over her waist, thumb bruising the skin over her lowest rib. In this position, she feels his breathing, his chest going up to meet hers. He controls his breathing, too. Sweat glistens at his temple and a single drop rolls into his hair. He's been sitting outside in the sun and a fine dusting of freckles spans the bridge of his nose. She smells fresh sweat, soap, hair gel and sun-warmed skin, mingling with her own deodorant and the body lotion she put on this morning.  
   
Footsteps echo in the stage room, muted by the carpet. Ariadne squeezes her eyes shut to quell the panic that tears at her like a wild animal. When her heart feels like it's beating its way clean out of her chest, she lets out her breath in a silent whoosh and tries to listen through the rush of her pounding heartbeat. Are those foots steps coming down to the stage?  
   
Ariadne freezes when the same voice that has threatened her in the library speaks. "Pardon my interruption. Have any of you seen a young woman, dark hair, jeans and cardigan, and a bright red scarf around her neck?"  
   
Her hand instinctively goes to her scarf but Arthur pulls her closer against him, shifts her to the side so his body is covering hers. Her head comes to rest on the ground and something rolls away. Cold wetness seeps into her hair. Spilled drink. Ariadne fights a shudder of disgust. She slides her arm around Arthur, under his jacket to hold onto him more tightly, to disappear under him and as she does, her fingers come in contact with his shoulder-holster and the body-warm metal of his gun. She freezes, then traces the outline of the gun with her fingertips, drawing a measure of calm from the knowledge of its existence.  
   
One of the student actors replies in heavily accented English. "Why do you want to find her?"  
   
Ariadne can hear the fake suave smile in the man's voice. "She's my niece and we became separated - I thought she might have wandered in here. She's fond of the theatre. And of Aalto's designs."  
   
"Just her?" the student asks and Ariadne's heart skips a beat. She hasn't seen the student's reaction to Arthur's plea for silence.  
   
"It's just the two of us admiring the sights," Suave Voice agrees.  
   
Ariadne clutches at Arthur, her sweaty fingers no doubt wrinkling his usually impeccable jacket. He presses his palm against her shoulder, warmth and comfort and a silent command to remain still and quiet. But, oh god, what if the next thing she hears is that student telling Suave Voice she is in the aisle between the seats here!?  
   
Arthur shifts against her a little, to find a better position should he have to fight, or so Ariadne guesses. She feels all the hard lines of his body pressing her to the floor. His belt-buckle digs into her hip. His leg slides between hers and she is suddenly, acutely aware of the way her body reacts to his proximity. Adrenaline, she thinks. Nothing but adrenaline. Her scalp prickles as she waits for the student's answer. The wetness from the puddle of soda she must be lying in spreads through her hair.  
   
The footsteps come closer still. Ariadne squeezes her eyes shut even tighter than before. She's beginning to see stars, hates the way she shakes like a leaf not only from fear but from disgust, too. Her fingers circle around Arthur's gun faster. She wonders if she could draw it should push come to shove.  
   
"Dark-haired, you said?" the student asks again, sounding thoughtful.  
   
This is it. He's going to rat them out any second now. Ariadne clenches her hand around the gun and Arthur glides his own hand around to cover hers. The whispered, "Don't," is nothing but a ghost of a sound coming to rest against her forehead on an exhalation. Her hand goes slack. His breath skitters into her hair. Fast.  
   
"Yes. Dark and wavey. You'd remember her, she's pretty."  
   
Ariadne's skin crawls.  
   
Appreciative laughter comes from the English-speaking student, along with a few words in Finnish, sounding amused.  
   
"Sorry, there were two blond American girls who came through an hour ago, but I haven't seen anyone else." A spat of Finnish switches back and forth between the speaker and some of the other actors, before he adds in English again. "None of us have."  
   
Seconds trickle by. Maybe minutes. Ariadne loses track of time. She lifts her head slightly when she hears no more footsteps. They're not out of harm's way yet, but she is getting sick of the fear flooding her system, of the helplessness of the wait.  
   
"Thank you," Suave Voice says, "and I apologise again for the interruption." He doesn't move away yet, though.  
   
When she opens her eyes again, they're in line with Arthur's collarbone. The pulse at his neck jumps and the knot of his tie is too close to his Adam's apple, bobbing up and down; the glossy silk must be strangling him. They may have to run again if the thugs really aren't gone. Arthur can't run if he chokes, right? She extracts her hand from under his and moves it up his chest to his tie.  
   
"Be sure to come back and see the performance with your... niece."  
   
Arthur's gaze snaps to hers and this time, something else is there besides the warning. His pupils widen as she runs her fingertip under the knot of the tie and the back of her hand brushes against his chin, meets skin prickly with a hint of stubble. It's as if his scent changes right there and then. A hint of musk mingles with the smells she caught from him earlier. Something flickers through his eyes. Her gaze drops when she feels warm breath against her face. His lips part ever so slightly and she finds herself staring at his mouth while she still runs her fingertip along the space between his skin and the silk.  
   
"O! let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!"  
   
Ariadne twitches back as the loud recital starts, bumps her head into the row of seats next to her. Faintly, she hears the theatre's door click closed. She drops her head against the carpet, moves her hand to her forehead, swipes her hair back and watches her hand shake so badly she wonders if she'll ever draw again.  
   
Arthur extricates himself from her and sits up, then rests a warm hand against her cheek. His hand spans almost the entire side of her face. "All right?"  
   
She shakes her head, feels the palm of his hand slide against her skin. "No." Wetness trickles down the back of her neck. "But let's get out of here right now."  
   
They wave to the theatre students as they exit, earning smiles and wishes of good luck. Perhaps the students think they're star-crossed lovers. Ariadne wonders if that would be better than the truth: dreamers on the run from thugs. Both options seem to have strong odds of ending in tragedy.  
 

***

   
Arthur makes Ariadne change into a promo shirt for the summer theatre event, warm orange with a big print of _As You Like It_ over the back and chest, same as the student actors are wearing, and that's for sale in the lobby. Arthur doesn't change his appearance, the kidnappers never saw him thanks to the student's help. It's just Ariadne who needs a makeover. Her hair is a dripping, sticky mess where she’s rolled into a puddle of spilled soda, so he makes her put up her hair and put on a black fedora he finds in the costume pool, and only then do they venture downstairs. As an afterthought, he runs his hands through his hair and ruffles it, distinguishes it from the neat slicked-back state. Ariadne, now more calm, quirks her lips.  
   
Arthur still has no clue who tried to snatch Ariadne or why, but he's not naïve enough to believe this was just a random attack, even if Ariadne obviously does. The men were far too professional for that. Real thugs would have used their guns, wouldn't have cared about witnesses.  
   
On the off chance that either of their phones are tapped he crushes his SIM card underneath his heel and dumps his phone in the theatre's dustbin. The laptop he left submerged in the pool next to the library earlier.  
   
They'll have to contact Eames. Arthur's sure the workshop hasn't been and won't be found, or Eames never would have suggested to set up shop there in the first place. As little but alarming as what he found out during his all too brief check on Eames is, the only thing it hasn't accomplished is to make Arthur mistrust Eames' professionalism.  
   
He's wondering about his own, though. As he walks down the theatre's stairs with Ariadne close by, he remembers her hands underneath his tie, the way his body reacted to her proximity. The worry that came like a stab to the gut when Eames called earlier should have been enough to tip him off, but what happened in the auditorium only confirms it – he's in over his head. He's no longer drawing the line between professional and personal and he wonders when it'll impair his judgement like it did Dom's, when it'll endanger them all.  
   
The square outside appears clear, so they venture outside in a group of students in shirts identical to Ariadne's. Ariadne stays close to him, crushing his hand in a fierce grip. She doesn't need a protector, she's handled her escape pretty well by herself, but the trusting gesture still makes his stomach do a slow-motion roll.  
   
They both squint against the sunlight and Arthur scans the square, certain that the kidnappers haven't given up. He tugs Ariadne closer against him and winds his arm around her shoulder. The fedora brushes his arm before her hip does.  
   
They only get a couple of steps before Ariadne tenses and says, "Over there. Quick, give me a kiss."  
   
He barely has enough time to raise his eyebrow at her when she leans up to him, on her tiptoes. Her hand comes to rest on his neck and she pulls him down and pushes herself up at the same time. Her lips press against his and this isn't anything like his playful tease during the Fischer job. Ariadne is demanding like a force of nature, no holds barred. She nips at his lower lip and Arthur feels the zing of it go straight to his toes. She tastes of fear and unpredictable electricity. He struggles against the quagmire of need that tries to pull him under and keeps his eyes open, catches the fedora before it slips from her head, shields her with it. Despite his body's reaction to her, despite wanting nothing but to lose himself in the taste and smell of her for just a few seconds, he catches sight of the kidnappers over the fedora's rim and evaluates.  
   
They stare at them, open and blank, as though they hadn't expected Arthur. He fights a groan when Ariadne licks against the seam of his lips, lost in the distraction, but he can't close his eyes and back her up against the next wall like he wants to because the kidnappers come into full view now. Ariadne feels his tension and slows the kiss, leaves it at a faint pressure.  
   
Arthur knows for sure now that the people who tried to snatch Ariadne aren't just thugs. There's something in the way they're holding themselves that screams training and wariness. They're fading back against the town hall already, nearly disappearing in the shadows. Arthur moves his mouth from Ariadne's lips to her neck and looks at the two kidnappers fully. He makes sure they see his gesture when he takes Ariadne's hand and leads it to his shoulder holster, pushing aside his suit jacket just enough so the straps and the hint of leather are visible even from the distance. Ariadne's breath stutters as her hand touches the Glock's butt. He hushes her, grabs her waist a little tighter.  
   
It's a sharp moment of understanding when he meets the kidnappers gazes, clear and precise. _If you want her, you'll have to get past me_.  
   
Both men nod and vanish in the shadows.  
   
Arthur exhales against Ariadne's neck, slow and measured, rebuilding the control that slipped from him half an hour ago. He extricates himself from her and presses the fedora back on her head so it doesn't slip. He looks away from her lips, from the smeared gloss that he now knows tastes of mint.  
   
"We're clear."  
 

***

   
People mill to their left and right, visitors to the Tango festival, and a chatter of various languages floats around them as they push through the crowd.  
   
"Where are we – "  
   
"Not back to the hostel. They'll know where you're staying and will try again."  
   
Ariadne stops abruptly in front of a shop window. "Who are _they_ exactly?"  
   
Arthur gives a careful shrug as he looks at the cutlery and porcelain on display in a window. She's doesn't suspect anything beyond a random attack yet, and he's not inclined to voice his suspicions to her. "Thugs?" he ventures.  
   
"Thugs who know where I'm staying," she says and he can _hear_ the raised eyebrow without needing to see it. "Thugs who're using silencers." She grabs his arm, turns him to face her. Her fingers bite through his suit jacket. "Give me _some_ credit."  
   
He exhales, reaches for her elbow. "Not here."  
   
The street around them is bustling with people, but he's not sure if they're safe even so.  
   
"Don't think I'll let you off the hook."  
   
Arthur twitches a sardonic smile. "I'm counting on it."  
 

***

   
They drive out of the city into what Ariadne can only describe as the middle of nowhere. The time in the car is spent in tense, utter silence; Arthur hasn't even turned on the radio. His knuckles on the wheel are white, his posture tense, and a frown is firm between his brows. Ariadne hasn't asked again where they're going, as it's obvious that their destination is going to be a hiding place. She's left to her own thoughts and realises that she should have expected danger when she took this job. She just hadn't expected the danger to be here, in real life. During the Fischer job, the only real danger had been in the dream, not outside of it. Not for her, anyway; it's easy to forget that Cobb could have been facing arrest as soon as he stepped through Customs at LAX. Things are different now. After today, this job isn't the same anymore. Arthur still hasn't divulged who tried to kidnap her, even though she's sure he has a very good idea. Later, she thinks. Later.  
   
Arthur pulls into a dirt road that's overgrown with weeds. Carelessly thrown away trash flutters in the wind and the windows of the grey, industrial-like building Arthur drives up to are broken. It could be an old mill or a service station for farm engines that was abandoned years ago. Nothing here looks like it could be their destination, but Arthur kills the engine, gets out and guides her to a rusty metal door, raps his fingers on it and waits.  
   
Ariadne shoots him a questioning look, but he doesn't answer. The hat itches on her head, her hair underneath will be a mess now the soda in it is dry. Sweat cools on her skin and she feels dirty and wants nothing but a shower. Just a little longer now. She remembers the shower in Arthur's hotel room and looks forward to going there once this little detour is over.  
   
The door opens with a hoarse creak. Ariadne is relieved to see the face which appears behind it. Eames scans the road behind them, then pins Arthur with a look. "I take it you lost them?"  
   
"Would I have come here otherwise?"  
   
Eames steps aside, opens the door farther, while making a sweeping gesture toward the inside. "Well, then. Honeys, you're home."  
   
Arthur brushes past him with an ease that clearly suggests that he's been here before and Ariadne follows more carefully.  
   
"You have another five minutes to tell me what the hell is going on here and who 'they' are," Ariadne states with the first breath of dusty, too-warm air she takes in the factory workshop, "or I'm out of here."  
   
"Where to, exactly?" Eames asks with a smirk that isn't friendly. "And how?"  
   
The car keys dangle from Arthur's fingers.  
   
Ariadne breathes against the need to yell in frustration. "I just got away from a kidnapping attempt. I think you owe me the damn courtesy to tell me what you know." God, the soda itches on her scalp.  
   
"We don't know yet, Ariadne," Arthur says, his voice carefully neutral. "We're not sure if they really were after you or trying to get to us."  
   
"Bullshit."  
   
Arthur shrugs, his demeanour icy. "Believe what you want. It's all I have." He doesn't offer any more, instead turns on his heels and goes to check the exits.  
   
"God," Ariadne huffs when Arthur's out of the room. "He's one cold bastard when he wants to be."  
   
She expects Eames to agree with her, but he looks thoughtful instead. "What?" she asks.  
   
Eames shakes his head slowly. "Don't knock it. We all cope with stress differently. This is his way."  
   
"What, shutting down all emotions like a damn robot?"  
   
"Would you prefer him to throw a screaming mimi of a fit?" Eames asks, and he sounds a little more agitated than Ariadne expects. Again, she wonders if she understands the situation _at all_ , but that's _their_ fault for being secretive _bastards_.  
   
"No-oh?" she says, dragging out the word. What the hell?  
   
Eames catches her raised eyebrows, relaxes. "Sorry. Wrong time and place, I know." He smiles and holds up his hands palms up. "All I'm saying is, don't ask him to give up his coping mechanisms, Ariadne. A guy as tightly wrapped as Arthur will unravel if you start undoing his knots."  
   
She lets his words sink in and knows on an intellectual level that he's right. The other part of her, however, wants to know what an unravelled Arthur will look like and she can't help the quiver of anticipation.  
   
"Don't," Eames warns.  
   
Caught red-handed, she crosses her arms over her chest and looks toward the dirty window. Eames reads people far too easily.  
   
"Would you like a tour?" Eames asks in an obvious but welcome attempt to break the tension and Ariadne looks around her for the first time.  
   
The inside of the building – it looks more like a garage than a factory workshop now – is large but surprisingly tidy. The windows are high up but let enough light filter in to make extra lights unnecessary.  
   
She spots a huge bed in the corner, secure between two walls, giving it the perfect view of both small windows and the door to the garage. She does a double-take when she spots a ficus tree standing next to it. She shoots Eames an amused look. Arthur must have had a fit when he first saw that and she has a feeling that that's exactly the reason Eames put it there.  
   
A low hum directs her attention to another object – a fridge.  
   
Ariadne turns back again, raises at eyebrow at Eames.  
   
"Creature comforts," he says with a shrug. "We'll be spending a good four days here, prepping and dreaming. I know Arthur has a soft spot for them, but I won't spend five days dreaming in rickety lawn chairs. Call me a hedonist."  
   
Ariadne finds herself agreeing with the sentiment. One things stops her short, though. "One bed."  
   
"King size extra," Eames beams. "Only way I'll ever get both of you in bed with me."  
   
"Would you like me to shoot him for you or do you want the honours?" Arthur asks in a surprising show of tight-lipped mirth. He takes his gun from his waistband and offers it to her.  
   
Ariadne huffs a laugh and pushes the gun aside. "I'll just castrate him in his sleep if he tries anything."  
   
Eames winces – incidentally, Arthur does, too, isn't that interesting – then pouts. "I'm woefully misunderstood.  
   
Ariadne lets out an unladylike snort. "I think we understand you perfectly."  
   
Eames grins unrepentantly. "You do, pet, you do."  
   
Arthur, who has reverted back to tense blankness, has gone to check something on yet another laptop which leaves Ariadne time to inspect the fridge and the bed.  
   
She's not sure what she expected, fast food, maybe, but certainly not this. It looks like Eames planned a longer stay. She finds bread, cheeses, smoked fish, cold cuts, fruit, vegetables, yoghurt. Something that looks suspiciously like chocolate mousse. She pulls it toward her, can't decipher the Finnish writing on it but sees through the translucent plastic cup – definitely chocolate mousse. "I do love a man with priorities."  
   
Eames crosses his arms over his chest and gives Arthur a smug look.  
   
"Speaking of priorities… " Arthur trails off meaningfully.  
   
Ariadne stretches from her crouch in front of the fridge. It's tiny, really, compared to the ones back home. She's still impressed Eames has managed to fit as much into it as he has. Then she plonks down on the bed belly down, props her chin on her hands. "All ears," she says and pins him with a hard glare.  
   
"We have to talk about the plan."  
   
"As I said, I'm all ears." She doesn't plan on giving him anything right this moment. She almost got kidnapped, for God's sake, she's allowed some leeway.  
   
"Since we're still on the dreamshare time-out Eames has proposed, we'll have to plan everything that can be done outside the dreamshare. Location, occasion, entry and exit routes."  
   
"One of us should trail him. Find out some more background." Eames stretches, then adds as an afterthought, "I need to place the placebo and get us a sample of the antagonist."  
   
"Do we have a time-frame?"  
   
"We have four days left."  
   
Ariadne extends a hand. "Remind me again why we're on such a tight schedule?"  
   
"Because the client is. And when the client says jump, we jump." Arthur shrugs. She can't help but think that it looks a little too casual. "It's a free market," Arthur continues, "so if we want to get paid, we have to deliver on time."  
   
"Fine." Ariadne decides to take a deep breath instead of yelling at Arthur like she wants to. Instead, she looks around her and takes in the bed, the fridge and the ficus tree.  
   
The _ficus tree_. She turns to Eames with a grin. "How did you get all this here, anyway?" she asks, curious.  
   
"Asking a magician for his tricks?" Eames wags a finger at her. "Ariadne."  
   
"So you stole it? Or did it drop off the back of a truck?"  
   
"The proper British phrase would use the word _lorry_ and, no, it didn't."  
   
"So?"  
   
"You're not giving up, are you?"  
   
She just raises an eyebrow at him.  
   
"Fine," he relents, then leans forward. "It was a rather clever idea, I must say." He looks satisfied with himself and it surprises her that she doesn’t find it grating. "I had it delivered here under the ruse of wanting to surprise my soon-to-be wife. Unusual wedding gift and all that."  
   
"In an old garage."  
   
"The bride loves cars."  
   
"In a dirty, oil-stained old garage."  
   
"She's kinky."  
   
Ariadne snorts. "I'm sure that went over well. The sales clerk was male, right?"  
   
Eames nods, smirks.  
   
"You had a similar Q and A with him, didn't you?"  
   
"He was a little less nosy. Fins don't talk much."  
   
"And you only got one bed because… "  
   
"If I'd bought three separate beds and had them delivered to an old, rundown garage in a bad part of town, someone would have considered me a pedo and would have sent the police after me."  
   
It is, Ariadne has to admit, rather clever. However… "Well, I'm cool with it. Is he?" she points her chin to where Arthur is inspecting the locks on the garage door.  
   
Eames inclines his head and gives her a speculative look. "You underestimate Arthur."  
   
Ariadne narrows her eyes. She's never heard that particular tone of voice from Eames before. Huh.  
   
Something catches her eyes before she can brood more, though. A bag stands next to the bed. A familiar bag. She scoots over to take a closer look.  
   
"How – " she starts and stops immediately, gliding her hand over her duffel bag.  
   
"I fetched it from the hostel this morning. Told them I was your brother come to pick up your things after you had run off with your new boyfriend to see the beauty of Mother Russia."  
   
"My brother."  
   
"My range of American dialects is versatile."  
   
She snorts. "That'll give me a mental whiplash."  
   
"Well, of course, the ladies, and," he adds, throwing a look in Arthur's direction with a wink, "some of the gentlemen, seem to take quite a liking to the old Oxford English."  
   
She arches a brow, curious. "You went to Oxford?"  
   
He winks at her when he sees Arthur turn toward them across the room. "Can't tell you all my secrets now, can I? What'd happen to the mystery?"  
   
"I could do with a little less mystery right now, thanks," she mutters and throws a dark look in Arthur's direction.  
   
Ariadne hears Eames fight a sigh. "I really don't think he knows any more than you do," he placates.  
   
She mulls this over for a moment and fight the initial urge to snort in derision. "Maybe, maybe not, but there's _something_ he's not telling us."  
   
Something flickers over Eames' face but it's replaced by a smirk before she can decipher the meaning of it. "I'm sure there are lots of things Arthur isn't telling us," Eames says in a low voice. "The number of his tailor, how he keeps the suits wrinkle-free, boxers, briefs or commando – "  
   
"Eames!"  
   
"Though, really," he continues and leans to the side to appraise Arthur with a put-upon leer, "the trousers hint at the answer to that question, don't they?"  
   
"Eames!" she laughs, exasperated, and swats his arm. "Quit trying to distract me."  
   
"Trying?" he echoes. "Are you telling me it didn't work?"  
   
Ariadne looks at him, fighting a smile. The she leans sideways as well, gives Arthur a once-over and turns back to Eames with a dirty grin. "No. It totally worked."  
   
Eames' laugh is resounding.  
   
Arthur straightens, turns to them, frowns. "What?"  
   
A phone rings and Arthur flinches as though punched.  
   
Ariadne feels her smile slip in increments. "I thought you'd left your phone in the theatre?"  
   
Arthur has another phone in hand, looks at it as though holding a rattlesnake. His jaw is so tense that Ariadne worries about the state of his teeth.  
   
"I did," Arthur pushes out from between clenched teeth.  
   
The phone stops ringing and Arthur seems to relax – to the untrained eye, it's a disguise that might work, but Ariadne has had time to watch Arthur and now sees the telltale signs, the restless, furious energy seeping from Arthur's every fibre.  
   
"Who – " Ariadne begins but Arthur stops her with a curt, "I'll find out."  
   
He walks out, tightly coiled tension in every step, the phone in a clenched fist.  
 

***

   
"What the _hell_ are you playing at?" Arthur snaps at the bodiless voice on the other side of the telephone line.  
   
"Incentive," is the short reply.  
   
"Incentive for what? For butchering the job? I need my damn architect!"  
   
There's a pause on the line. "Your… architect?" It's the first time Arthur has ever heard anything resembling uncertainty in the client's voice.  
   
"Who did you think she was, my girlfriend?"  
   
The following, longer pause is more than eloquent. Arthur barks a short, unamused laugh, fights the urge to scream into the phone. "I'm no longer surprised you didn't know Saarela is taking Somnacin antagonists. With research as mediocre as yours," he's treading a fine line here, he knows, but damn it, he hasn't slept in days, was boiled to death in a dream and they've just tried to snatch his damn architect, he's allowed some home-truths, "it's little wonder you didn't succeed with Saarela by yourself. So how about you leave the hard work to the ones who are actually professionals and stay the hell out of my way?"  
   
Another short silence on the line. Arthur feels the phone leave an imprint on his face. He's shaking with anger but he needs to remember that –  
   
"Are you done?" the bodiless voice asks, bored.  
   
"I haven't even started," Arthur spits.  
   
"In that case I suggest you don't. Or next time, we will make sure you have the proper incentive to get the job done." The male voice is silky, gentle. "You're a professional, after all. You know the dangers of this life. But does she?"  
   
"You stay the hell away from her, you – "  
   
"Or what? You won't finish the job?" The voice laughs, a mirthless sound. "Please. We've got you one way or the other. We expect results in four days. I suggest you don't talk about our conversation. No need to worry the girl's pretty head, am I not right, Arthur?" Smugness and condescension _drip_ from the words. "I thought so." The line goes dead.  
   
Arthur stares at the phone in his hand for a long moment, then hurls it against the garage's wall with a muted scream.  
   
A whistle suddenly sounds from the garage door. "Temper? I didn't know you had it in you, darling."  
   
Arthur's chest rises and falls, fast. "Not the time, Eames. Not the _fucking_ time."  
   
"When will be the right time, then? Care to let me know? Because I certainly am curious."  
   
Arthur tries to brush past Eames to get away, but Eames grabs his arm. "Not this time. You have some explaining to do." His voice is cold.  
   
Arthur whirls, breaks free of Eames' grip and pushes him against the wall with the power of surprise at his disposal, crowding into Eames' personal space. "I do _not_ need to justify myself to you."  
   
Eames relaxes. "No, you don't." His gaze is open, steady, searching.  
   
Arthur lets go of him, walks a couple of steps, then comes back; unable to stop himself. "Then why the hell do you keep pushing?"  
   
An incredulous smile flickers over Eames face. "Because you're not in this alone anymore. It's three arses in the line now that intelligence is involved."  
   
Arthur freezes, his stomach bottoms out.  
   
Eames looks thoughtful, Arthur can see him cataloguing his reactions. "Score, then, hm?"  
   
"I have no idea what you're talking about." Arthur says, but even he knows that it sounds weak.  
   
"Oh for Christ's sake, Arthur!" It's the first time he has ever heard Eames sound actively pissed off. It's unsettling. "Did Daddy run away when you were three and gave you trust issues for the rest of your life?"  
   
Arthur feels his jaw clench. "Out of line."  
   
"Oh, is it?" Ariadne is suddenly in the door, her hair once again open but matted on the right side of her head. She has her arms crossed over her chest. "I think if you want me to keep working with you, we're going to have to address some of these issues."  
   
Arthur breathes hard against the nasty laugh trying to bubble up. "Are we doing a merry group therapy session now?"  
   
"It would do wonders for your charming personality as of late," Ariadne volleys back. From the corner of his eye, Arthur sees Eames fight a grin and in the end, that's what flips the switch.  
   
"If you think this life we lead is fun and glamorous, full of noble pursuits and prestigious work, think again. We're on a clock, we have a job, and if we don't succeed, there will be consequences beyond failing a damn class in college." It's the wrong thing to say, but he can't stop the words from tumbling out.  
   
He expects her to react with fury, but instead, she looks him in the eyes and says, very calmly, "You condescending asshole." Then she turns on her heels and stalks back inside.  
   
Arthur watches her retreating back for a few seconds before Eames clears his throat and says, "Well done. Nothing motivates like a good insult to professionalism, hm?"  
   
Another bout of blinding rage wells up inside Arthur and he raises his fist.  
   
"The other cheek this time, if you please," Eames says – and Arthur deflates.  
   
He runs both hands through his hair before extending one, placating. "I can't, Eames," he says, willing the other man to understand.  
   
Eames purses his lips. "Don't tell me. Tell her."  
   
 _I can tell her even less than I can tell you_ , Arthur thinks. All the same, Eames is right, so Arthur takes a deep breath and follows after her.  
 

***

   
When Eames opens the garage door to walk back inside, a shouting match is in full force, intense enough to send waves of anger rolling toward him. He looks from Arthur to Ariadne and the only word he can come up with is explosive.  
   
"Could you repeat that?"  
   
"Don't play dumb, Ariadne, it doesn't suit you. You heard me the first time."  
   
"I'm not sure I did," she says, clipped. "Are you honestly grounding me here?" She encompasses the garage with a sweeping gesture of her right arm. " _Here?_ "  
   
Arthur squares his shoulders even more. "Yes."  
   
Ariadne looks furious, her lips in a pale line. "Watch my lips. No."  
   
Arthur laughs, an unkind sound that only manages to rile Ariadne more. "Do you really think this is up for negotiation?"  
   
Eames counts. Tick. Tock. _Boom_.  
   
"Who died and made you king, you – "  
   
Arthur tries a different approach now. "Do yourself a favour and think for a moment, Ariadne. Think."  
   
"No!" She makes a decisive, cutting hand-gesture. "I took this job because I was going mad in Paris and because _you_ asked. I didn't sign up for this to be kidnapped and be held in a dirty old garage by someone who can't even tell me the truth."  
   
"We've been over this," Arthur says, sounding weary. "I can't."  
   
"Can't or won't?"  
   
"Don't," Arthur warns.  
   
"Why the hell not?" she yells, throwing her hands up. "I'm tired, I'm sweaty, I have soda in my hair, I am scared and not a single thing you're saying helps me feel any better about any of this."  
   
"I'm not your babysitter."  
   
A beat. Eames winces, sees Ariadne's eye flash and decides to make his presence known before there are physical consequences.  
   
"Listen, darlings, either you two fuck this tension out of your systems or you go and take a cold shower right now."  
   
Ariadne whirls toward him, fists clenched. "There is no fucking shower here, you idiot!"  
   
Eames raises both hands. "Easy, easy."  
   
She looks ready to fly off the handle right there and then, but stops herself in an admirable show of restraint. "Just… just leave me alone for a while."  
 

***

   
So this is how she ends up washing her hair over the damn sink, with the help of a cup and a towel and with fucking cold water that sends her shivering. She curses under her breath, feels a headache begin to pound behind her temples at the ice-cold water she has to use in this stupidly small sink. She kicks the wall, fights against the need to scream. She can't leave, she's trapped and she can't even take a damn shower.  
   
"Not worth it breaking your foot," she hears Eames' voice next to her and she flinches. She hadn't even heard him come in.  
   
She wants to snarl at him to leave her the fuck alone, but all that comes out is a petulant-sounding, "It's cold."  
   
"I figured as much," he says and sets something on the toilet-seat she can't see for the soap running into her eyes. She curses again, tries to wipe at her eyes, but he stops her hands. "Let me."  
   
Warm water sluices over her head and she makes a sound she'll deny later. He's heated up water, uses it to rinse the soap from her hair and she's so damn touched she's torn between tears and hugging him. He takes his job seriously, massages her scalp as he goes, careful not to tangle her hair too badly, but pressing all fingers against her skull in soothing movements.  
   
When the warm water is used up, he winds the towel around her hair and she comes back up from the sink, water in her eyes and running over her face.  
   
He makes an apologetic sound, holds her chin and reaches for the edge of her towel to wipe away leftover soap that clings to her forehead and her cheek. He works slowly, meticulously and his eyes never leave her face. This close, she feels as though he's letting some of his armour down, as though, for a very short moment, she sees some of the real Eames.  
   
"What are you doing here, Ariadne?" he asks, his thumbs brushing her cheekbones but it's not a question because he already knows the answer.  
   
She tries for a smile but fails. His hand glides lower and his fingertips trace her smile's escape route backwards, rough against her chin, against her lips. Her gaze snaps up to meet his and she can't read him, not in the least, no matter how open his look. He spreads some of the water still pooled over her upper lip and Ariadne fights the urge to part her lips, to voice the sound that's threatening to spill. Instead, she lifts her own hand to his face, sets the base of her palm against his jaw and rests her index finger against his lower lip.  
   
She doesn't know what the fuck she's playing at here. Looks at his mouth and thinks that it's made for kissing, feels need twist in her stomach not unlike to what she felt earlier, pressed against Arthur. Arthur, who's working just outside the small bathroom. Arthur whom she was ready to slap senseless just minutes ago.  
   
They move their fingers in unison now, ghosting over the thin skin of their lips, a slow exploration and she wants to kiss Eames so bad it's like a vortex she only stops by looking in his eyes instead of at his lips. It's a shock when it shouldn't be to see that his pupils are wide and his eyes focused on her mouth instead of her eyes. Maybe she's vulnerable now. Maybe she's insane or her system is still flooded with adrenaline. Maybe this has been in the books since they all were in the same hotel room what feels like weeks ago.  
   
It's the worst idea of the damn century, but she imagines his lips on her, not just on her mouth but her body. As if he reads her mind, he presses his fingertip harder against her lip and she can't help it any longer, parts her lips and touches her tongue against his fingertip. The groan that rises from deep within his chest goes straight to her stomach, settles there like liquid fire, and she wants, she wants –  
   
"Don't drown her in there, Eames," Arthur's voice cuts through the haze and Ariadne twitches back, lets her hand sink and closes her eyes. Fuck. _Fuck_.  
   
Eames' hand falls away from her face as well. She hears him take a steadying breath, then his lips linger against her forehead for a short moment. She fights the urge to reach for him, claws her hands into the folds of the towel on her lap.  
   
"Give her a moment, darling," Eames says as he walks out.  
   
She runs both hands over her face and drops her head to her chest, breathes against the adrenaline that's been coursing through her system since the failed kidnapping attempt. Against the arousal, too.  
   
It doesn't work.  
   
And because she's tired of it all, because she deserves a fucking break after this day, she closes the door, drops her pants and takes the edge off to the memory of the taste of Arthur's mouth and Eames' skin. Their tastes mingle as her hand moves at a frantic, rough pace. The orgasm is too short and not intense enough, but she doesn't dare keep going. The last thing she wants is them finding her with her hand between her legs. She washes her hands with more vigour than necessary, doesn't want to smell herself on her fingers.  
   
She doesn't meet their eyes when she has finally stopped shaking enough to walk straight. It's just this day, she decides. She needs sleep. Tomorrow, everything will be back to normal.  
 

***

   
"I'm going to sleep," Ariadne announces. She lies down with her arms crossed tight over her midsection, showing off impressive stomach muscles when she sinks down without supporting her torso with her arms.  
   
"Ariadne," Arthur say and crouches next to her.  
   
She rolls over, away from him. "No."  
   
"Listen, I – "  
   
"No," she repeats, more forceful than before.  
   
Arthur runs a hand over his face, bites back on an expletive. A warm hand lands on his shoulder. "Leave her," Eames says, quietly. "It's been a long day. She'll come around."  
 

***

   
"This is getting ridiculous," Arthur hears and straightens quickly enough in his high-backed chair to feel something in his neck snap. He fights a groan. There seems to be sand in his eyes, they're dry and hurt, he has no doubt they'd be a lovely shade of rabbit-red if he were to look in a mirror now.  
   
Eames has his arms crossed over his chest when Arthur looks up. "What?" Arthur asks, instantly defensive.  
   
"There's a bed here, you know?" Eames gestures with his chin.  
   
"It's occupied," Arthur points out.  
   
Eames raises an eyebrow at him. "Hardly," he says. "I know she's mad at you, but look at her." His voice softens on the last words.  
   
Arthur does. She's a picture of serenity, of the kind of peace neither he nor Eames any longer experience when they go to sleep.  
   
Ariadne is curled in on herself, legs drawn close to her chest, looking for all the world like she wants to disappear into a small ball of comfort. She breathes evenly and her now dry hair fans the mattress around her, not in perfect order but in a disarray that will have her cursing it when she wakes. She smiles in her sleep, mumbles something, then buries her nose in the crook of her arm. Her eyes move rapidly under closed eyelids. She's dreaming.  
   
"Do you worry sometimes?" Eames asks, his voice a silky murmur, quiet and unguarded.  
   
"About what?" Arthur asks, if only to distract himself from the way Eames' voice glides under his skin.  
   
"That we're corrupting her." Eames crouches next to Ariadne, takes a strand of her hair and runs it through his fingers, a gesture so gentle something in Arthur wants to break open at the sight.  
   
"The choice was hers to make. It still is," he replies, but the words taste wrong.  
   
"And when you're not being politically correct?"  
   
Arthur shakes his head, looks at Ariadne. "I would make sure she never met Dom and me. I'd have her far away from all of this." He exhales, stands from his chair and looks more closely at her, at the curve of her ear, her cheeks that dimple when she laughs. "But I'd miss her." He realises he said too much when Eames shuffles over to look up at him and adds, "You get used to working with the best."  
   
Eames chuckle isn't amused. He shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. "Just when I thought you were showing human emotions."  
   
Arthur sighs, weary. "What do you want, Eames?" He looks back, meets Eames' gaze head on.  
   
The cocky, innuendo-filled reply is on the tip of Eames' tongue Arthur can see it, but to his surprise, Eames bites back on it and shakes his head instead. He stands from his crouch. "Get some rest, Arthur."  
   
Arthur wants to bark a bitter laugh – he hasn't really rested since before Moscow, is no longer sure he can.  
   
Eames' hand is on his bicep suddenly, biting through the suit jacket. He pushes Arthur to sit on the bed. The mattress dips under his weight and Ariadne moves to curl even closer in on herself. Her back is a gentle curve; harmonic discord against the sharp, geometric lines of the mattress.  
   
"Get some rest," Eames repeats, mild. There's more to the suggestion, something between the lines that slips through Arthur's fingers like quicksand. He looks up at Eames in hopes of interpreting it.  
   
"It helps if you lie down," Eames tells him, amused, and gives him another push.  
   
Arthur struggles – this is inappropriate, the bed, though king-size, isn't that big, he can't go to sleep now, doesn't know if he can trust Eames to not rat them out in their sleep – but it's half-hearted. He knows he shouldn't, likely _can't_ , but he desperately wants an ally in this whole clusterfuck: he _wants_ to trust Eames.  
   
Eames keeps his hand on Arthur's shoulder, holds him down until he relaxes and closes his eyes with a huff.  
   
Then Eames' hand is on his forehead and over his eyes, heavy and warm and frighteningly soothing. Arthur should say something, he knows he should, but the warmth is easing the headache that's been almost constant since he got to Finland.  
   
He hears Eames' voice, disembodied now, quietly gliding over familiar syllables.  
   
 _"Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay,_  
   
 _And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth:_  
   
 _So do not let me wear tonight away_ _–_ _"_  
   
Arthur's last thought is a surprised _Wordsworth?,_ but he's asleep before Eames finishes the recital.  
 

***

   
Eames wakes to warmth at his side, to an abrupt, jerky movement of the body next to him, to something tickling his nose.  
   
He cracks an eye open and looks into a mop of tangled brown hair. Ariadne. She snores, the sound faint, but there. She's rolled around in her sleep, which has her taking up almost the entire bed – amazing for such a small person – and her head is tucked under Eames' chin. It's not a spoon position, more a ninety degree angle. Weirdo. He smiles against the warmth of her hair.  
   
A sharp intake of breath has him turning away from her – toward Arthur. Arthur, who, thanks to Ariadne giving her best impression as a giant, is all but pressed against Eames' side to not fall off the edge of the bed.  
   
Eames remembers plonking down in the ridiculously huge gap Arthur had left between him and Ariadne when he did finally give in, still stiff and proper even in his sleep. Eames had been neither squeamish nor masochistic enough to sleep in a chair to the sight of them resting comfortably.  
   
Arthur is sitting up now, all sharp movement and tensed muscles and disorientation. The hair at the back of his head stands on end. "It's morning," he says, surprised, his voice low and rough from sleep. His gaze slides to Eames, it's visible that he's trying to piece together how he ended up here. Eames tells himself the low voice and the unguarded look don't affect him.  
   
Instead, he reaches out and rests a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Yes, darling. And here I am, still respecting you."  
   
Arthur's mouth turns down, but the glare he tries to level at Eames is ruined by a huge yawn creeping up. It's highly entertaining to watch Arthur remember his manners only when his jaw is already close to being unhinged. He snaps it shut and looks vaguely horrified.  
   
Eames smiles, but inflects no mockery into it. Arthur isn't used to waking up in company and is still unguarded. Eames enjoys it too much to ruin it.  
   
"Your nefarious plan worked, then," Arthur states while he runs a hand through his hair to give it some semblance of order.  
   
"Well, if the mountain won't come to the prophet…"  
   
Arthur gives a monumental eyeroll and slides off the bed. "Tell me you at least have a toothbrush," he mutters.  
   
Eames lifts his right hand to point toward a door near the back of the garage. It's not much more than a loo and a sink, but it's clean and they've had worse. "Toothpaste, toothbrush. Towels. Soap, deodorant," he extends a finger for each item. "Shaving cream, razor, comb, hair gel."  
   
Arthur raises an eyebrow at him. "Didn't take you for a boy scout, Eames."  
   
Eames drops the hand, runs a finger over the crumpled sheet. "I just like my co-workers happy," he says. "And my olfactory sense uninsulted."  
   
Another eyeroll. "Coffee?"  
   
"Tea, please."  
   
Arthur pulls a face that looks this close to him sticking out his tongue at Eames and disappears toward the bathroom.  
   
Eames smiles and nuzzles into Ariadne's hair, allowing himself to doze for a little bit. He falls back asleep to the smell of warm skin and the soap she used to wash her hair with yesterday.  
   
The next thing he knows, there's a small hand flailing and hitting him where it hurts. Ariadne's head knocks into his chin, making his teeth rattle. Eames grunts.  
   
"I'm not late, I'm not late!" she pants, sounding panicked, and when Eames looks up, Arthur is back – laughing at them. The sight alone makes Eames' hand twitch for his totem.  
   
Eames grits his teeth, drops his head back on the mattress and lifts Ariadne's hand – the back of it is still resting on his _dick,_ for Christ's sake, and after the situation on the bathroom yesterday that is _not_ helping – with two fingers. "Not that I don't appreciate experiments, pet, but I generally prefer a less violent approach." Her hair moves when his breath stirs it. He wrinkles his nose in disgust. Morning breath. Damn, he needs to brush his teeth.  
   
If Arthur waking up was comical, Ariadne waking up is even more so. She shoots straight up, her hair in a disarray trying to compete with a sloppily built bird's nest, her face lined by creases in the sheet, her eyes wide, confused and mortified.  
   
"Eames?"  
   
"Good morning, sunshine." He turns on his side, rests his head on his hand and gives her a wide and sunny smile.  
   
She groans and bends forward, head resting on her drawn up knees. "I have a perfectly good hostel. Why didn't you send me back there and spare us the embarrassment?"  
   
Eames lifts his gaze away from Ariadne and looks at Arthur. _Want to remind her?_  
   
"Architects work better when out of their comfort zone," Arthur answers, his voice light. _Not now_ , the look directed at Eames says.  
   
Ariadne lifts her head from her knees and levels a death-glare at Arthur. "I hate you," she says with fervour. "And I will design a death trap if you don't have coffee and something sweet."  
   
Eames is quite proud of himself that he manages not to flinch, not to say out loud, _you already did_.  
   
Something flickers over Arthur's face, wipes the earlier mirth away. Seeing the transition and remembering Arthur's screams makes Eames wonder again just what happened in Arthur's part of the dream.  
   
"Eames?" Ariadne turns to him now, distracts him from his thoughts by poking a finger against his sternum. "Coffee. Tell me you have coffee." She looks wild and serious. It chips away some of the ice that had suddenly settled around his heart.  
   
"What kind of a brute do you take me for?" he asks. "Top of the fridge, there's a kettle. Help yourself."  
   
She's off the bed with a surprisingly ungraceful stagger and stabs another finger in Arthur's direction. Arthur, who's standing next to the bed, taking everything in with a look of fond amusement Eames hasn't seen on him in a long time. "If you laugh," Ariadne threatens, "you won't get any."  
   
"Not like he usually does," Eames mutters, unable to not make the admittedly bad joke. Ariadne and Arthur pin him with twin glares.  
   
"There's not enough caffeine in my system." Ariadne reaches the fridge, surveys the top. He can see her wrinkling her nose all the way from the bed. " _Instant_?"  
   
"Not my fault you don't drink tea. There's a perfectly good loose-leaf second flush Assam there." He shrugs, gets up from the bed, and stretches. Two sets of eyes follow the movement, making him remember that he's only in his undershirt. He stretches a little more for good measure and gauges the effect of his shirt riding up over his stomach. Interesting. He files both their reactions away for later. "I invite you to bring a Gaggia here tomorrow, though. If you can do so without raising suspicion."  
   
Ariadne rolls her eyes. "Fine."  
 

***

   
It looks as though she only remembers what happened yesterday after the caffeine starts kicking in.  
   
Eames tries to catch his eye but Arthur ignores him. He knows what he has to do.  
   
"Hey, Ariadne," he says.  
   
She angles her body toward him, mumbles a, "Mmmh?" around a mouthful of coffee.  
   
"Can I talk to you for a moment?"  
   
She shrugs one shoulder but watches him over the rim of her mug, her eyes awake and alert. "Go ahead."  
   
Arthur shifts his weight from one foot to the other, takes a sip of his own coffee. Ariadne is right, it really is pretty vile.  
   
"Look," he finally starts, then stops again. Ariadne looks up without saying anything, just waits.  
   
Eames coughs, hides a smile behind his hand. "I think nature's calling. Too much tea, you see?" He sets the mug down – only half of its contents are gone, Arthur sees, and he knows that it's Eames' first today – and walks toward the bathroom.  
   
Arthur feels an unexpected wash of gratitude toward Eames. He'll still be able to hear almost every spoken word, since the door to the bathroom is thin. But the fact that Eames is willing to give Arthur this moment to try and explain to Ariadne is enough. Or maybe, Arthur thinks, and the thought has his shoulders tensing in knots once again, maybe Eames doesn't need to hear anything because he already knows.  
   
Damn it. Paranoia strikes deep.  
   
The clink of ceramic kissing concrete snaps him back to the here and now; Ariadne has set down her mug. She looks at him fully now, expectant and wary. "Well?"  
   
"Did you sleep well?" Arthur asks. He's a fish out of water now; he has no idea how to carefully let her in on what little he can tell her without disclosing the entire truth.  
   
"As well as can be expected considering the circumstances." She runs a hand through her hair; her fingers get stuck in tangles and she pulls a face. "Considering _this_." Ariadne rummages through her duffel bag still at the foot of the bed and comes up with a brush. She runs it through her hair with a lot more force than necessary and narrows her eyes at him. "Skip the niceties. Quit stalling."  
   
The toilet flushes and the water starts to run in the sink. Eames' humming is muffled enough by the door that Arthur can't make out the song, but not enough to not distract him.  
   
"Arthur," Ariadne's voice is sharp. "Either you start talking or you can design the dream yourself."  
   
He doesn't bother telling her that he could if he had the time and wasn't as run ragged as he is. So, yes, he needs to let her in if they want to complete this job. He also owes her the courtesy.  
   
She tears at her hair again with the brush, he hears it catch in the tangles. Arthur steps forward, takes the brush from her hand. "I need you to understand that I can't tell you every detail. It's not a matter of mistrust, it's for your own – " She bristles; he pins her with a hard glare. "Yes, for your own safety."  
   
"That is such bull – "  
   
"And I need you to accept that," Arthur continues, drowning out her protest. He meets Ariadne's gaze, wills her to work with him.  
   
After a while, her shoulders relax a little. "Fine," she says. "But don't expect me to stop thinking."  
   
He smiles, and it surprises himself. "Please, don't ever."  
   
Some warmth returns to her eyes. "So start talking. And," she says, inclining her head toward the brush in his hand, "make yourself useful while you're at it."  
   
It's both a veiled demand to make amends as well as a way he can not to lie to her face at least and Arthur feels some of his own tension ebb away.  
   
"Turn around," he says.  
   
Ariadne does, folds her legs underneath her tailor-style and turns her back to him. Her hair's a brillo pad of tangles from where she slept on it while it dried. Arthur tries to part it but fails. Long, torn-out hairs cling to the brush already. "Well," he says in a wry tone, "this will give me plenty of time to choose my words while I work. Eames will get bored in the bathroom."  
   
The water shuts off. "If you're doing kinky things, I'm coming out," comes the muffled, amused comment from the bathroom.  
   
"Shut up and shave, Eames," Ariadne calls, laughter in her voice.  
   
"Misery guts," Eames grouses, but falls silent.  
   
Arthur reluctantly begins to talk, carefully choosing the facts he can divulge while attempting to untangle Ariadne's hair. He doesn't mention the intelligence background or the threat to their lives. Doesn't mention Saito. Doesn't mention his worries about _Eames_.  
   
He feels Ariadne lower her defences with each word, each stroke of the brush, and that trust gnaws at him, makes him want to confide in her fully, to share some of the damn burden that's been placed on his shoulders. He doesn't, though. Can't. _Won't_.  
   
Eventually, his words ebb away but he keeps running the brush through her hair that's now smooth and untangled, in long, soothing movements that calm him. Ariadne tips her head back, a hum of contentment on her lips. Her eyes are closed, a smile plays on her lips, and Arthur remembers the feel of these lips against his. He swallows, lets her hair glide through his hands once more, warm from her scalp.  
   
"Is this the PG-version of make-up sex?" Eames' voice breaks the quiet moment and Arthur lets the brush sink, feeling caught red-handed. "Or did you get Arthur to agree to follow his true calling?"  
   
"Shooting you in the face?" Arthur asks innocently, trying for composure.  
   
Eames clutches his heart. "He wounds me." He sinks to the bed next to Ariadne in a dramatic movement. "Will you avenge my honour?"  
   
Ariadne bursts out laughing and Arthur realises that he's missed that sound. "What honour?"  
   
Eames rolls to his side in a tantalising show of inked skin where his undershirt rides up. Arthur looks away from the strip of skin quickly. "Just for that," Eames says, "I'm eating the chocolate mousse alone."  
   
Arthur watches them scramble for the fridge; the futon groans as Eames tackles Ariadne on his way there. She relents surprisingly fast once he has her pinned and he lets go of her, reaches for the handle of the fridge and opens it.  
   
Ariadne dives for the last clean spoon. She grins triumphantly and sticks it in her mouth, swirling her tongue around it. Then she sticks her tongue out at Eames.  
   
Eames just shrugs and peels the lid back from the plastic cup. The smell of dark chocolate is immediate and strong. Arthur watches Ariadne's eyes widen when Eames sticks his index finger into the mousse, grins at her and lifts the finger to his mouth.  
   
Arthur swallows hard as Eames opens his lips and licks the finger clean with a small hum of pleasure. "This is quite good," he says, his voice low. "You ought to try it – " A pause. "Oh, too bad, you can't!"  
   
Eames dips his finger into the mousse again and Ariadne makes a sound that's somewhere between choked and furious. She drops the spoon, a bright clink against the garage's concrete floor, and lunges at Eames. Eames just laughs and bats her away.  
   
Ariadne is determined, though, and after a minor scuffle during which the cup gets precariously close to tipping over, she manages to stick her finger into the mousse as well. Dark brown chocolate stains her skin and she whoops in triumph, lifts her finger to her mouth – only to have her wrist trapped in Eames' hand.  
   
"Nuh-uh," he says and it's slightly out of breath, lower than before.  
   
It doesn't affect Arthur. _Doesn't._ He shoves his hands into his trouser pockets, claws his fingers into his thighs through the lining, because Eames…  
   
Eames, blue-green irises shadowed beneath thick lashes, looks first at Ariadne, then at him, and the entire playful atmosphere changes. Arthur hears Ariadne's breath hitch, digs his fingernails into his thighs harder. Eames keeps eye contact with Arthur, then dips his head forward and closes his lips around Ariadne's chocolate-smeared finger.  
   
Arthur closes his eyes at the sight, swallows convulsively, his throat suddenly parched. A sound from Ariadne has him opening his eyes again and he sees her staring at her finger between Eames' lips with her own lips slightly parted, and imagines her pupils are blown wide. He wonders if this is having the same effect on her that it's having on him. His trousers are getting uncomfortably tight. He wonders if she's getting wet.  
   
The pulse at Ariadne's neck jumps. She licks her lips and he knows how those lips taste, damn it all to _hell_ , and there's his answer. He fights against the groan that's trying to clamour free; he wants, wants a taste of this, too. On her skin. On Eames' tongue.  
   
He's got to get out of here.  
   
"Are you done?" he hears himself say and it surprises him how steady and aloof his voice sounds when he feels nothing like it.  
   
Ariadne pulls her hand back, folds her index finger to join the others in a tight fist.  
   
Eames just winks at her, but it looks fake, like he doesn't mean it, like he surprised himself with this move and can't bring his walls up fast enough to cover his lapse. "I think I made my point," Eames agrees.  
   
Arthur squares his shoulders and moves before he can think about his impulse. "Then let me make mine." He reaches out, wipes a bit of mousse from the corner of Eames' mouth with his thumb. "Learn to share."  
   
He lets his thumb linger for the merest moment. Eames' eyes widen, but Arthur turns away before Eames can say anything. He walks to the bathroom, shuts the door behind him, leans against it and exhales. When he looks down, he finds his clothes creased from sleep, the shirt unsalvageable, and his trousers most likely unfit to be worn again. He moves to open the buttons on his shirt sleeves and sees the chocolate stain still on his thumb. Arthur stares at it for a while, his mind replays the earlier scene unbidden, and the groan that was lodged in his throat the entire time slips free. His cock twitches as he remembers the feel of Eames' lips under his thumb, the way Eames' eyes turned darker, the way Ariadne's breath hitched.  
   
He's in so fucking much trouble.  
   
Still, he lifts his thumb to his mouth and sets it against his lips. He closes his eyes as he runs his tongue over it, tasting chocolate and a faint hint of the toothpaste Eames used earlier.  
   
So god damn much trouble.  
  


	6. A New Plan

Ariadne had never imagined this when she thought about Finland before, but just before eleven a.m., the sun has already heated their hideout enough to make her uncomfortable. As if she weren't uncomfortable enough already after this morning's events. Just to have something to do, she opens the door to let fresh air inside.   
   
The scent of grass, burnt by a merciless sun, floods the room on a too-warm breeze.   
   
Ariadne sighs and turns back, arms crossed over her chest.   
   
Arthur rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, all business. "We need to find a way to get Saarela under next time."   
   
Ariadne uncrosses her arms and walks a couple of steps, thinking aloud. "Does he have anything scheduled in the next three days? Surgery? Dentist's visit? Binge-drinking tour?"   
   
"The latter wouldn't help us, he's no good to us drunk," Eames says.   
   
"Why?"   
   
"Alcohol affects the dream, and you really don't want to be stuck in the subconscious of a drunk guy. Unstable projections, random buildings collapsing on top of you, everything is slightly tilted sideways... "   
   
"Okay. So what?"   
   
Arthur runs a hand over his face. "Ariadne, you had more time in his apartment when we were under – did you see anything that might hint at interests? Books, music, anything?"   
   
"I thought you'd been trailing him online?" she asks, frowning.   
   
"He's not a computer whiz-kid for nothing. He covers his tracks well, doesn't leave traces about his personal life online. His Facebook and Twitter aren't helpful. He posts a lot, but only about things we can't work with. Everything's too disconnected. If we pick the wrong thing, we'll fail immediately."   
   
Ariadne furrows her brow as she thinks about his apartment. She sees books in front of her inner eye, but nothing that forms a direct hint at a specific interest. The subjects of the books were widely spread out, hinting at an eclectic taste, but nothing specific.   
   
Letting her mind wander a bit more, she remembers the gramophone. "Did you see the gramophone in his living room?"   
   
"Looked like decoration to me. Do you think it was real?"   
   
"There were records lying next to it, and the one on the turntable didn't have any dust on it."   
   
Arthur inclines his head. "Do you remember what it was?"   
   
Ariadne thinks for another moment, then answers, "Piazolla."   
   
"Huh," Eames says, sitting up straighter in his chair. "Interesting."   
   
"I'd say," Arthur agrees. He looks into his notebook, flipping through the pages. Something akin to enthusiasm begins to flicker over his face as he shares a glance with Eames. Their conversation is silent.   
   
"Care to let me in?" Ariadne asks, annoyed that she's left out once again.   
   
"When I trailed him online the other day, he visited the website of a Tango Club. Eames mentioned spotting some kind of an interest in Tango as well. It was all so spread out that it didn't seem enough to make a connection, though, especially with the Tango festival in town, but now that you mention Piazolla, I think I need to do some surveillance to corroborate that theory." Arthur reaches for his jacket. "If we're right, this might be our new route."   
   
"What do you want the goon squad to do in the meantime?" Ariadne asks. She can't start on any design before they have a set-up they can run with and it makes her restless.   
   
"Conference call with Yusuf to make sure the compound we've picked really works around the damn Somnacin antagonist."   
   
"Far be it from me to cause alarm," Ariadne says, "but we don't have the antagonist."   
   
Eames taps his bottom lip in thought. "I can get it and swap it for the placebo at the same time. It gives us a better chance still, because he'll have had some time to detox."   
   
"A B&E?" Arthur asks.   
   
"More of an E&R," Eames smirks.   
   
Ariadne raises a questioning eyebrow at him.   
   
"Extraction and replacement."   
   
She rolls her eyes. "Funny."   
   
"I try."   
   
"Can we get back on track here?" Arthur interrupts them. "How do we know where he keeps it? For all we know, it might be administered at work."   
   
Closing her eyes and remembering Saarela's apartment, Ariadne says slowly, "Medicine cabinet. Top shelf to the left."   
   
"Erm," Eames says, narrowing his eyes at her. "Do I want to know why you kept this to yourself until now?"   
   
Ariadne squares her shoulders, feeling defensive. "It didn't really matter until now, did it?"   
   
"Just drop it, Eames. We have a plan. Let's get started." Arthur had seemed out of sorts yesterday, a little off ever since the failed extraction. But now that they have a silver lining, he's back to the sure, professional, calm enigma, as though he bathed in dragon blood; his skin is back to being impenetrable. He smoothes his tie and his clothing becomes armour.   
   
"So you two are going to break in there."   
   
Arthur reaches for his jacket. "Not me."   
   
"What, no clandestine burglary for you?" Eames asks, sitting up a little more straight in surprise. "Shame, I was so looking forward to you in black clothes and a fetching balaclava." The tease falls just short of effective. Something about the tone is wrong, as though Eames is trying too hard.   
   
"I leave that honour to you, Mr. Eames. Who better to steal something than a professional sneak?"   
   
Ariadne looks from Arthur to Eames and notices something passing between them, something she's not sure she likes. Eames covers his reaction with a smirk and a flourish. "Gladly."   
   
Arthur pulls on his jacket and gets ready to leave.   
   
"Where will you be?" she asks, crossing her arms over her chest to give him a glare.   
   
Arthur gives her a quick smile, one she remembers from the Fischer job, one part conspiracy, one part daring, and one part mischief. "I'll get us a ride."   
 

***

   
Sometimes Eames wishes it wasn't so easy to break into people's flats. It's just not enough of a challenge these days. If more people knew, they'd be more careful, or more suspicious, and it would provide at least a modicum of a thrill, but normal flats of normal people are just as easy to get to as an old lady's purse on a fairground.   
   
Despite everything Eames has read in the file about Saarela, he's surprised that his flat isn't a lot more protected. But apparently the company who hired him hasn't deemed it necessary to watch out for their asset and Finnish intelligence doesn't seem to expect such a direct approach, either. Arthur still hasn't said what exactly it is the client wants from Saarela, but Eames isn't stupid enough to think that it's just some corporate secret. Governments don't get involved over something so trivial. He wonders if another call to Suz might be in order, but decides against it. He can't exploit her friendship. Besides, Arthur needs to tell him on his own and Eames thinks his suspicion isn't too far off, so for the moment, playing along is the easiest way to make Arthur trust him.   
   
Which brings him into Saarela's flat, where the box from their pizza still peeks out from the waste-basket in the kitchen and into his bathroom.   
   
The bathroom is small and narrow. White tiles line the walls all the way up to the ceiling and give it the impression of a butcher shop. Blue towels create a stark contrast against the gleaming white. There's lint and dust on the floor in the corners. It's neither really dirty nor really clean, showing that a maid comes to visit Saarela in uneven intervals. A maid who gets paid but not enough to really take her time to do her job properly. On the edge of the sink, the toothpaste tube is missing its cap. The toothbrush needs changing, its handle is caked in dried toothpaste.   
   
He walks farther into the bathroom and finds the medicine cabinet. Fingerprints line the stainless steel front with the engraved cross on it, showing the frequent use of the door. His fingers covered in rubber gloves, Eames opens the cabinet and finds painkillers, sleeping pills, and allergy relief. The bottle Ariadne described is easily spotted. She was right, the name does look funny. No wonder she remembered it even days later.   
   
Getting a placebo had been easy enough, but what matters now is to swap the contents with something that looks just the same. Billions of medications and billions of shapes and colours. Eames has five different shapes in a small plastic bag in his pocket. He hopes that the correct shape will be among them.   
 

***

   
Arthur's Russian has never been more than passable, but it's enough to get him in touch with one of his old contacts.   
   
The woman, Ekaterina, has the strong, harsh accent of the Kazakhstan mountains. Her voice is low enough to mistake her for a man on the phone – never in person – and rough from too many cigarettes. Arthur remembers his reaction to her the first time they met. She looked like a ballerina, tiny, bird-boned and slim, her dark blonde hair framing her face in pleated ponytails so stereotypically Russian it hurt, her cheekbones high and strong and her eyes the dark blue of the Baikal on a summer's day. He'd expected her voice to match her appearance, and had been all the more taken aback to find her laugh as dirty as a trucker's and her ability to hold her liquor on par with some of the biggest men Arthur knew. She was among the most excellent point women Arthur had ever met and she'd had no qualms about letting him know that she was better than him. Their working relationship had been a rocky, if grudgingly respectful, one after they had saved each other's asses several times. Ekaterina had informed him that he didn't owe her anything because she enjoyed saving his ass far too much. Arthur had felt the hard pinch on his butt-cheek for days after they'd bid their goodbyes the last time.   
   
"If you call for help, go somewhere else," the dark, accented voice on the other side of the line says.   
   
"Don't you want to hear the price before you decline?" Arthur asks, and he knows he's already got her. Ekaterina isn't able to resist money. Her parents come from a tiny, poor village in the Turan Lowlands and she's tried to leave the poverty behind her ever since she came to Moscow to study. It's her one weakness.   
   
"What could you possibly offer me that would hold my interest, Arthur, Solnyshko?"   
   
He _hears_ the suggestive tone but also knows that she's just teasing. They'd slept with each other once after a night with too many 'sto gram' and decided afterwards that they weren't going to repeat it. She's never stopped her suggestive comments, though. In a way, she reminds Arthur of Eames sometimes. He pushes that thought from his mind quickly.   
   
"A screw you to important people and a handsome sum of money."   
   
Handsome translates to 2 million dollars minimum. She never names prices, likes her code-words for them.   
   
There's a short silence on the line. "You didn't come to say hello when you were in Moscow the other day."   
   
Arthur tenses and is glad that she's not there to see his reaction. He knows that she keeps tabs on him the same way he does on her. That her tabs are close enough that she knows where he was just five days ago is both a comforting and unsettling knowledge. "Not enough time for a night on the town, Katya."   
   
The familiar diminutive paired with the honest – and it is honest, Arthur notices, surprised – regret in his voice do the trick.   
   
"What do you need?"   
   
"An ambulance van."   
   
"Which country?" She doesn't even ask what he needs it for and he knows she doesn't care. It's business. No more, no less.   
   
"Finland."   
   
She makes a low, appreciative sound in the back of her throat. "You're close, Arthur. Are you sure you don't have an hour or two?"   
   
He can't help the smile creeping up. "As much as I'd like to, Katya – "   
   
"Oh, quit lying," she answers, her smile just as audible as his. "Add a first edition of Hemingway to the handsome sum."   
   
The Hemingway isn't meant to be taken at face value. It's a coded "add another quarter of the basic price". The two million alone make him wince, but he plans on sending his expense bill to Saito after this. She also knows that he never cheats on her, and that his money arrives in her account promptly. Ekaterina's help is pricey, but she delivers the impossible if need be.   
   
"Give me two days and a number where I can reach you."   
   
Arthur rattles off a number. Ekaterina doesn't ask him to repeat it. Her memory is as precise as her work.   
   
"Send me a postcard," is her parting shot and this time he knows she means it.   
   
When Arthur hangs up, he feels less like a fish on dry land again. He has a vague plan and the means to make it work. Now all he needs to do is flesh out the plan and trust that Eames succeeds with the placebo and that Ariadne can design something on even shorter notice than before. It's not a good plan by any means, but it's a whole lot better than what he had yesterday.   
   
He has two days to make it perfect and he intends to do just that.   
 

***

   
It gets stifling in the garage quickly once the sun has reached zenith; the tin roof does nothing to keep the heat out.   
   
Ariadne has checked her e-mail ten times since Arthur and Eames left this morning, has searched for games on the laptop and found it bare save for a browser, a word processor and a calculating program. Arthur's files are encrypted. Of course they are.   
   
She's tried to read a book, has checked her abandoned Facebook when she couldn't concentrate, has even done the long overdue sorting of her music on her mp3 player. She's sharpened her pencils, ordered bits of cardboard according to size, and cleaned her scissors of glue.   
   
She's bored out of her mind and grows more resentful with every passing moment.   
   
If she could at least go for a run, the physical activity would take her mind off the situation for a while. Arthur has strictly forbidden her to leave the garage on her own, though, and while she may resent the order, she's not stupid enough to disobey it. Ariadne remembers the feeling of the gun pressed between her shoulderblades, the mind-numbing knowledge that it wasn't a dream, that she could actually die should the trigger be pulled.   
   
It makes her being grounded here a logical, but no less frustrating consequence.   
   
By one in the afternoon, she feels as though she's run a hole in the concrete floor. Ariadne tries to sleep, stretches out on the ridiculously big bed, but only manages to toss and turn. It's hot. Her skin feels too tight. She remembers the evening before, replays the events of this morning, and runs her outstretched hands over the crumpled sheets. Goosebumps of awareness skitter over her skin.   
   
She's here already, isn't she? It's a bed. She's alone. Keyed up with nothing to do and no one to keep her company, so what's stopping her?   
   
Ariadne slides her hand down her ribs to her stomach to the button of her jeans. She considers it for a moment. Maybe an orgasm or two will relax her and take her mind off things. There's a surprising amount of pleasing nastiness in the knowledge that tonight, both men will sleep in the bed she got off on top of and not know about it. She flicks the button open and pulls the zip down, slides off her jeans and panties.   
   
A sound outside makes her freeze in mid-movement. The bed is in full view of the door. If anyone comes in now, she'll literally be caught with her hands down her pants. Or to be accurate, her pants down. The thought is less thrilling than she expects.   
   
Ariadne goes to work with a ruthless efficiency. She knows how to handle her body to get the desired effect within minimal time. Masturbation isn't sexy to her, never has been. Especially not when her ear is sharp on any noises coming from outside. It's a stress reliever, a normal part of being alive. Her hands alone aren't as effective as the vibrator she left in Paris, but they'll have to do. It takes a little more prep, a more generous squeeze of the lube she carries in her vanity bag, a few more fantasies involved. It's not hard, though. She remembers the way Eames' groan in the bathroom affected her, the way it settled right in her stomach like a punch. It's easy to imagine his hands on her, rough and clever, that mouth just under her breast where the skin is thin and sensitive...   
   
As her hands move to manipulate her body, her mind wanders, from Eames to Arthur. To the way his thumb bruised the skin just over her lowest rib while he held her still in the theatre. She still feels the bruise and it's an unexpected turn-on. The memory goes hand in hand with another, though. She's never been able to stop it, has always had the weirdest pictures popping up before her mind's eye just before orgasm. It's only that moment when she's actually falling over the edge that her mind shuts down, that one moment of reaching blinding, pure white-out that allows for a moment's peace that's never long enough.   
   
The first one's too short, the oblivion isn't enough, she can't shut out the sense memory of the gun against her skin that suddenly blanks out everything else, so she keeps going, forces her mind away from it, manages to wring another quick, unsatisfying orgasm out of herself. Her ear is turned to the door, always listening, always expecting to be caught. Combined with the unpleasant memories, it keeps her from enjoying herself. Frustrated, she keeps going, forces her mind away from the events at the library. This time, her mind presents her with the memory of Arthur's lips against the side of her neck and her hand against his gun, transforms it to his teeth scraping over her skin and, unbidden, she feels herself open up under her fingers. It slides to the memory of Eames licking the mousse from her finger and Arthur brushing his thumb against Eames' lips, morphs to them kissing, open-mouthed and dirty and _damn._ The pictures combine, dance before her, her hands move faster, deeper and she falls over the edge with her hips bucking off the bed, _finally_ , with a force that takes her by surprise. This time, it's good, it's running through her like white lightning, longer, more intense, more –   
   
There's a sound at the door. Someone's clearing his throat. "Not dancing around the place naked, I hope, pet?"   
   
 _Eames_.   
   
Ariadne tears her hand away from her clit in mid-orgasm, her body protests wildly as she pulls up her panties and jeans with a jerky movement, shoves the lube under the bed where she hopes it's out of sight and escapes to the bathroom before he can see her.   
   
It takes her a good five minutes to bring her breathing under control enough to face him. She's still jittery when she walks out the bathroom.   
   
"Boring day?" he asks and, God, she wants to yell at him for the denied orgasm, but of course, she can't and tries not to blush a deep crimson. Ariadne goes for a sneer instead, lifts her sweaty hair away from her neck. Eames' gaze follows her movement.   
   
"Why?" she asks. "I had plenty to occupy myself, didn't I? So many riveting things to see and do in an abandoned garage."   
   
Eames gives a facial wince but doesn't apologise. He takes in the state of the garage, the lines of neatly stacked cardboard and perfectly ordered pencils. "Nice work." His gaze glides to the bed. The sheets are rumpled from where she twisted on them. She's glad the lube left no stains. Ariadne can't stand his proximity suddenly, afraid that he'll find out, afraid that he can smell the sex on her. Eames is a perceptive bastard and it doesn't help that he was starring in one of the fantasies which brought her off.   
   
She walks toward the garage door, pretends to look out toward the dirt road when really, she needs to take deep breaths to calm herself. The breeze glides over her skin and causes goosebumps despite the warmth. The frustration from the denied orgasm still crawls under her skin, she feels swollen and just short of desperate, and she doesn't trust herself not to do something radical when he's close to her. It'd be unprofessional, she knows, even while she's vaguely aware that he wouldn't be averse to the idea. She's never been one to think with her libido, though, and she'll be damned if she starts now.   
   
"Did you make the swap?" Ariadne asks when she trusts her voice again.   
   
" _And_ got lunch on the way back," Eames answers over a rustle of plastic and Ariadne realises that she hasn't even noticed that he came in with bags in hand.   
   
She smells tomatoes and herbs and asks, over her shoulder, "Dragon food?"   
   
"It's warranted, isn't it?"   
   
"You're a lot more perceptive than Arthur gives you credit for, Eames." She doesn't want to, but she already feels herself softening toward him.   
   
"There are a lot of things Arthur doesn't give me credit for," Eames agrees.   
   
Ariadne is surprised to hear something like hurt echo in the lightly voiced reply. She turns around to find him opening pizza boxes. "What is it with you two?"   
   
"What do you mean?" he asks without looking up from his task.   
   
She crosses her arms over her chest, inclines her head. "Oh, come on, Eames."   
   
"If you ask a direct question you might get a direct answer."   
   
The words are more biting than she'd expected and she's reminded that there's more to Eames than flirtation and charm and smartness. She wants to know more, desperately wants to find out what makes him tick but at the same time isn't sure she has the nerve to find out. Maybe it's time to change tactics. Maybe all she needs is a distraction. She's been in this damn garage for too long.   
   
"What's the answer to the ultimate question of life, the universe and everything?"   
   
Eames looks up at her then, momentary confusion flickering over his face and it might just be the first time she actually managed to surprise him.   
   
"Come on, Eames," she says, resting her back against the doorframe and tapping her index finger against her bicep. The breeze cools her sweaty neck and moves her hair. "Direct answer."   
   
"Give me seven and a half million years and you'll get it."   
   
Ariadne grins. Eames grins back and it's enough. A truce. She pushes off the doorframe and walks toward the table.   
   
"Pizza?"   
   
Eames shrugs. "I've had a craving since we delivered that one to Saarela."   
   
She bursts out laughing. "Me, too!" She picks up a slice, bites into soft crust topped with a tomato sauce heavy on oregano. "Will your gentle palate be happier with this?"   
   
Eames swats her arm. "I got you a Diavolo, imp."   
   
Ariadne feels the heat on her tongue develop, rolls her eyes in delight. "You know what women want."   
   
Eames opens his mouth for a reply, but Ariadne stuffs a slice of pizza in it before he can make the pun. If she looks at the grease on his lips a moment too long, she hopes that he doesn't notice. She looks away quickly. Her body has finally settled down. No need to start again.   
   
They eat in companionable silence. When only a few slices are left, Ariadne looks at the wreckage over the bottle of water in front of her. "What about Arthur?"   
   
"Not sure if he's going to come back today," Eames answers, closing the lids of the boxes.   
   
Ariadne chokes on a mouthful of sparkling water, coughs hard. "What?"   
   
"He's doing surveillance," Eames explains. "It might take a while."   
   
She feels indignation welling up again and clenches her hands around the bottle. Couldn't he have told her herself? Why does she have to find out through Eames?   
   
"What?"   
   
"I don't know. It's just..." She waves her hand. "This behaviour is infuriating."   
   
"Which behaviour? He's working, Ariadne. How's that infuriating?" Eames' voice in calm.   
   
She runs both hands through her hair. "It just is!" she says, irrationally, even though it's not what she wants to say at all.   
   
"Do you listen to yourself sometimes?" Eames asks, his tone mild but cutting, and it's like being doused with ice-water.   
   
Her instinctual reaction is that of volleying back. "What, are you on his side, too, now?"   
   
Something like a warning flashes through Eames' eyes. "I wasn't aware we had sides that required choosing."   
   
Ariadne slams the plastic bottle on the table hard enough to make it vibrate. She gets up from the chair. "There's always a side to choose!"   
   
"Please don't make me make you take a time-out in the corner, Ariadne." The words are gentle and amused, but there's steel underneath.   
   
"You patronising _bastard_." She stalks over to him, gets right in his face. "I've been at the mercy of the two of you since I came to Finland! We almost killed a man, I almost got kidnapped, and then Arthur makes me stay here alone for an entire day with nothing to do and without divulging any information and I – "   
   
"You're still free because of him."   
   
If she were any less furious, she'd back off now, hearing the dangerously flat tone of Eames' voice. Instead, she barks a bitter laugh. "Free? Define free, because this here certainly doesn – "   
   
Eames suddenly gets up and reaches for her upper arms. "Listen to me, you little brat." His grip is hard, painful. The physical aspect is just as shocking as his unprecedented anger. "The world doesn't revolve around you. Can you get that in your head? Sometimes decisions have to be made to keep people alive and it has nothing, _nothing_ at all to do with you and your delicate sensibilities. You're a fantastic architect, Ariadne, but you're not the centre of the sodding universe."   
   
He crowds into her personal space. She's never been intimidated by him before, but he's looming over her now, making her realise just how much bigger than her he is. "Do you know what Arthur did after his last architect was abducted?" He gives her a little shake. "Nothing." Another shake. "Not one bloody thing. Do you know why?"   
   
She shakes her head a little, afraid to anger him even more by not reacting.   
   
"Because Nash was just an architect. If Arthur saved you yesterday that means you're more than that, so show a little gratitude."   
   
Her mind races, trips and stumbles over the fact that Eames is getting this angry in defence of Arthur. Her throat is dry. "I – "   
   
"Not, shut up and listen." Yet another shake. "You took this job knowing that Arthur's line of work isn't legal. Yet you took it, out of your own free will. Did you think this was going to be like a holiday on a cruise ship where the greatest danger was food poisoning and the only annoyance was sea-sickness? Well, I hate to break it to you, but you took on a job, not a hobby, and yes, some parts of a job are boring, and some are annoying, but if that's not good enough for you, there's the door. You're free to go and see if a stroll on the more dangerous side is more to your liking."   
   
She struggles against him and against the unbidden tears that well up. She feels small and stupid; like a five-year old who just got told off after a temper tantrum. What is worse is that she knows she just acted like one, too, and every single damn word Eames said is the truth. A fierce blush creeps up her cheeks and into her scalp, making it prickle with heat. If the ground beneath her were merciful, it'd swallow her now, but of course that's just wishful thinking. She stares at Eames' chest instead, at the buttons of his shirt and the way they rise and fall under his breathing. It's a monumental struggle, but she won't humiliate herself even more by crying now, no matter how much she feels like it.   
   
The grown-up thing to do would be to apologise, right? She takes a few deep breaths. Well, then.   
   
When she dares to look up at Eames, ready to comment on what he just said, he has his face scrunched up, his forehead wrinkled. His grip eases up. "Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering."   
   
Ariadne blinks. Her lower lip quivers. When he wrinkles his forehead even more and purses his lips, she can't hold it in any longer. A sound between a sob and a shriek of laughter escapes her lips. She claps a hand to her mouth, feels torn between tears and laughter, but her inner pendulum ends on laughter and she ends up dropping her head to his chest, laughing so hard her sides hurt and tears are leaking from the corners of her eyes. She can't stop for the longest time, whenever she tries to look at Eames, she starts to laugh all over again.   
   
"Feeling better now?" he asks, smiling at her.   
   
"If feeling like an absolute idiot counts as feeling better, then yeah."   
   
"Glad we have that sorted out." Eames wipes some of the tears away from her cheeks. His thumb lingers on her cheekbone for a moment. "You ready?"   
   
There it is again, that weird tension. Ariadne decides to fight it this time. "Ready for what?"   
   
Without further ado, Eames picks her up and throws her over his shoulder. Ariadne squawks, swats his back, then stops. She feels the outline of a gun in the back of Eames' pants, smells wool and dust from his jacket. Upside down this way, she also has an excellent –   
   
"Admiring the view?" Eames asks, laughter in his voice.   
   
She swats his behind. "Let me down or I'll pinch it."   
   
"Ah, promises, promises." Eames dumps her on the bed unceremoniously. He points a finger at her. "Stay there."   
   
She rests her head on her hand, watches him reach for the laptop and turn it toward the bed. He tilts the screen. "What are you in the mood for?"   
   
"You want to watch TV?" she asks, incredulous. "Eames, this computer is clean. There's nothing on there. Even Youtube is blocked."   
   
He throws her a look of utter disgust over his shoulder. "Christ Almighty, I'm just surrounded by people with no imagination."   
   
It takes him a couple of minutes and some muttered swear-words, but after a while, there is indeed a picture flickering over the screen. A familiar melody fills the garage, quirky strings and cembalo and Ariadne feels the smile creep all the way from her head to her toes.   
   
"Miss Marple?"   
   
"Respect the old bird!" Eames says, earnestly, takes off his jacket and slides on the bed next to her.   
   
"I didn't... " she trails off, not sure what it is she wants to say.   
   
"Didn't expect me to like this kind of thing?" He reaches for the pillow, bunches it up and gestures for her to lift her head.   
   
Ariadne rests her head on the pillow he stuffs underneath her and tries not to meet his eyes when she says, "Yeah."   
   
Eames makes a non-committal noise. "You and Arthur." It sounds like a sigh, like there's more to the sentence, something he's not voicing. He grabs the other pillow, bunches it up as well and lies down next to her, close enough she can feel the warmth from his body radiate out toward her. She's surprised to find that despite the warmth in the room, it's not unpleasant.   
   
Ariadne watches the screen for a while but can't concentrate on the plot. She angles her body toward Eames, watches him watch the screen while trying not to stare openly. It's probably unwise to catalogue the frown-lines on his forehead, bright against skin tanned by the African sun. The sun shining through the small window in the garage hits his face from the side, illuminates his eyes, turns them a luminous green-blue. She wonders if she'll ever see him clean-shaven, but no, no. The mental picture alone is too strange. He's lost some weight since the Fischer job, his hair is shorter. Arthur's seems longer, as if they've traded.   
   
Arthur ...   
   
She lets her head fall back against the pillow with a huff.   
   
"Where are you?" Eames asks while Miss Marple calls for Mr. Stringer.   
   
Ariadne feels caught, fights a blush. "Right here."   
   
"I doubt that."   
   
Perceptive bastard. Of course he'd notice.   
   
"I'm sorry I acted like an idiot earlier. I just... "   
   
Eames doesn't say anything, he waits for her to finish the sentence.   
   
"I don't know why he makes me so angry. He just does."   
   
A smile flickers over Eames' face. "He _is_ a little difficult sometimes."   
   
"Noticed that, huh?"   
   
"I've been working with him for a lot longer than you have, pet." It's one of those mysterious Eames-answers that raise more questions than they answer. "He usually means well. In his backwards Arthur-way."   
   
She expels some air from her lungs explosively. "The Arthur-way can be damn infuriating."   
   
Eames shrugs. "Don't let it infuriate you, then."   
   
"Easier said than done."   
   
"Not really."   
   
She arches an eyebrow at him. "Care to elaborate?"   
   
"This'd be easier if you weren't both so bloody brick-headed." Eames sighs and stretches his neck muscles so his hair scritches over the pillow. "Look, if you find out why what he's doing annoys you so much, you're much closer to not letting it bother you quite as much."   
   
"He's a damn control-freak, that's what's bothering me!" She winces, notices she sounds like she did earlier.   
   
He shifts and looks at her. "Is it really?"   
   
Ariadne looks away from him. Is it? Is it really?   
   
After a while she says, quietly, "It'd be nice to be considered an equal, not a protégée."   
   
"Well," he lets his hands fall on the bed, palm down, "that should be easier now you pulled your head out of your arse."   
   
The _shut up about this already_ is loud in his words without him having to say it. Ariadne notices that she's been en route to another wave of self-pity and winces, hides her head against his shoulder. "You won't let this go anytime soon, will you?"   
   
He puts an arm around her, pulls her against him. "Phshaw. Never."   
   
She twists a little, rests her cheek against his chest. "Good. I guess I need the reminder every now and then."   
   
Eames laughs, the puff of air is warm in her hair. "Shush. Miss Marple is about to disclose that she'd like to marry Stringer if she ever stopped being a spinster."   
   
Ariadne stifles the laugh against his chest, snakes her arm around his waist and settles in more comfortably. She's vaguely aware that Eames takes strands of her hair and twists them around his finger. His deodorant must be good, because she doesn't smell any sweat. He smells of sun-warmed skin, dust and a faint trace of this morning's soap. His heartbeat is strong and calm underneath her ear and Ariadne begins to drift to the sound of Mr. Stringer chanting, "Whatever it is, Miss Marple, no, no, no."   
   
She doesn't hear the credits roll.   
 

***

   
With the last strings of tango music drifting from the open door of a club, Arthur calls Eames' phone at around 11.30 p.m. He doesn't call Ariadne, even if it's her he's interested in, because he really doesn't want to stoke the fire in case it has burnt low by now.   
   
Eames' phone rings three, four, five times, enough to make Arthur tense. When Eames finally picks up, his voice is subdued. "Yes, mother?"   
   
"Fuck you, too, Eames," Arthur shoots instinctively but smiles. "Did you manage?"   
   
"What kind of a beginner do you take me for?"   
   
Arthur relaxes a little. Knowing Eames succeeded takes some of the strain off him, paves the way for their plan.   
   
"Hey, could you do me a favour?"   
   
"Hmm." Eames sounds speculative.   
   
Before Eames can come up with some kind of bizarre condition that Arthur's sure would include some kind of innuendo, he asks, "Can you check on Ariadne?"   
   
Eames makes a non-committal sound that could be a chuckle. "Bit worried, are we?" His voice is still hushed, almost drowns in the chatter of people coming from the club.   
   
Arthur shifts the phone against his ear. "Could you speak up?"   
   
"But that would be quite rude. I'd hate to wake sleeping beauty here."   
   
"You're in the garage?"   
   
"Yes, Sherlock."   
   
The ugly knot that had twisted in Arthur's stomach since they left Ariadne alone in the garage this morning slowly uncoils. "How is she?"   
   
Another amused chuckle. "We're quite comfortable."   
   
There's a hollow sound as though the phone is lifted, a shutter release's hiss creates a feedback loop. Before Arthur has the time to ask any more questions, his phone signals an incoming picture.   
   
"Eames... " Arthur warns.   
   
"Just play for once in your life."   
   
Arthur lets the phone sink and opens the message. It's a dark and grainy picture of Eames with his arm lifted to be able to take the picture. He's on the bed with Ariadne curled up next to him, her head on his chest. Arthur doesn't know whether to be surprised or relieved that they're both fully clothed. He's definitely surprised that the picture doesn't make him angry and amuses him instead. It sets his mind at ease, knowing they're both safe. He doesn't feel like dissecting that sentiment.   
   
"Comfy," he comments when he lifts the phone to his ear again.   
   
"Not jealous?" Eames asks, something vaguely suggestive in his voice.   
   
 _Of you or of her?_ Arthur thinks and refuses to sound bitter even in his own head. Instead he says, "Why would I be?" On an afterthought he adds, "She's drooling on your shirt, not mine."   
   
When Eames speaks next, it sounds a little disgusted. "Damn you for being right."   
   
"Look, I've made good headway here, I'm going to stake out Saarela the rest of the night, see where else he goes. Stay with Ariadne and, Eames?"   
   
"Yes, Arthur?"   
   
Arthur fights a smile at the clear enunciation of his name. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."   
   
Eames' huff of breath is loud through the line. "That rules out _everything_."   
   
Arthur can _hear_ the pout but refuses to rise to the bait. "Try to contain your disappointment. I'll bring breakfast in the morning if you promise to have Ariadne caffeinated by then. We'll have to review the new information."   
   
"I do have a healthy sense of self-preservation, so don't worry."   
   
"I don't," Arthur says, hangs up and realises that he means it. This and more. No matter how uncertain he is about Eames' motives, he knows with an absolute certainty that Ariadne is safe with him.   
   
It's a bizarre realisation, but whatever Eames is up to, whoever he is and whatever he's not telling them – a part of Arthur that goes as deep as his lizard brain trusts Eames, even though he knows that it might be his downfall.   
 

***

   
"Tango," Ariadne says. Her tone is flat. For the moment. It's eleven a.m. and Arthur still isn't here with the promised breakfast which has her grouchy. The fridge Eames filled when he set up this base in the garage is now empty save for some milk.   
   
Eames puts the phone down and nods. "That's what Arthur said."   
   
"Tango? In Finland?"   
   
Incredulous now, and, yes, he's been expecting that reaction, even if they had talked about the general idea before. She doesn't appear to have taken them seriously. She's also distracted now, so Eames continues before she has time to remember. "It's one of the world's largest tango dancing nations. You must have seen the signs for the festival when you came into town."   
   
"Of course I did, but my Finnish is a bit rusty," she says with an eyeroll. "So, he likes to dance?"   
   
"Arthur said he was watching, not dancing."   
   
"We can work with that." She twiddles the pencil in her hand a couple of times, lost in thought.   
   
Eames smiles. "I can see the cogs turning." He's glad she's out of the funk she was in the day before. She's got a purpose again and is thriving under the challenge.   
   
"We're going to need a dance hall. Shouldn't be too difficult."   
   
"All right then. When have you last been to one?"   
   
She shrugs. "It can't be too hard. Just a big dance floor, a couple of doors to the side, a few rooms creating loops for the maze, nothing too fancy, right? The main thing is going to be the dance floor."   
   
He wrinkles his forehead. Overconfidence. Eames has seen enough architects fall for the trap of taking things too lightly and failing spectacularly. It's not just because his own arse is on the line that he doesn't want her to make that mistake. "When," he repeats the question, "have you last been to a dance hall?"   
   
She twirls a strand of hair around her index finger. "Never."   
   
"So, basically," he says with an arched eyebrow, "you know the square root of bugger all."   
   
She crosses her arms over her chest. "Yes, mocking will make it easier, thank you, Eames."   
   
He raises his hands, palms out toward her. "Easy, easy," he says. "No offense." He waits a moment until he can see her defensiveness dissipate, then continues. "So, you never danced?"   
   
"Not the tango."   
   
He shakes his head. "A shame." He imagines her in the classic tango outfit, her hair slicked back and in a tight bun, a rose in it. She'd be striking.   
   
"Well, if you're done mocking, I'd like to – "   
   
Eames reaches for her hand, takes the pencil out of it, puts it back on the table and pulls her to the middle of the garage. "Wait here." He goes back to the laptop, searches online and comes up with some satisfactory examples. The speakers' sound is tinny, but it'll work.   
   
"Eames." She crosses her arms over her chest and glares at him. "If you turn this into a rendition of _Dirty Dancing_ , I'm going to kick you where it hurts."   
   
Eames has no doubt she will. He laughs. "I look better than Swayze, though, don't I, _Baby_?"   
   
He dances out of the way of her foot when she tries to kick his shin and laughs harder. "Come here," he says and pulls her into the open dance embrace. She is stiff in his arms, uncooperative.   
   
"This is called _abrazo_ ," he explains and leans down a little to whisper against her hair. "And you need to relax. I can't teach a log." She gives him an almighty frown. "Also," he adds, putting on an American accent, "This is my dance space. This is your dance space."   
   
" _Eames_!" She untangles her right hand from his left and hits him, hard. For such a tiny thing, she's surprisingly strong.   
   
Before he chokes on his laughter, he takes her hand again, positions their arms and pulls her to his chest. "Close _abrazo_. More often found in Argentina. Sometimes also called the _Milonguero style_."   
   
He sways to the music a little. "Get used to the music first. Try to get a feel for it. Tango isn't just a dance, it's a lifestyle."   
   
She stops moving. "I told you not to – "   
   
"Want to tell me why you hate that movie so much?" he asks and pulls her into movement again.   
   
She drops her forehead to his chest and shakes her head. It's a strangely comfortable weight. She begins to follow his movements despite her protests. Eames ignores the way she steps on his toes. "I was conceived in a drive-in cinema when my mother dragged my father to see _Dirty Dancing_ for the tenth time."   
   
"She took her eyes off the screen?" Eames asks, careful not to grin at the exasperation in her voice.   
   
"It was raining. All they had was the sound."   
   
Eames remembers his own mother dancing through the house to the songs. He was ten when the movie hit the cinemas and he gives himself a mental whiplash over getting such a vivid reminder that Ariadne is young. Not jailbait, but young. He's surprised to find out that he couldn't care less. She's brilliant and she's real and that's what matters.   
   
"Sounds like you know the story by heart," he says, more for his benefit than for hers.   
   
"Every. Single. Damn. Birthday." Every new word is a muffled puff against the front of his shirt, warm and moist and annoyed. "Since I was fifteen. They gave me the soundtrack and a poster. They still play _Time of My Life_ on my birthday." Ariadne clenches her fingers around his, strong enough that her fingernails are pressing into his skin, eight half-moons of pain. "I hate it. _Hate_ it." She shakes with indignation.   
   
He tries to bite back on the laugh. Really, he does. But she keeps stepping on his toes and her anger translates into her moves so perfectly that he can't stop himself. His laughter disturbs her hair.   
   
She stomps on his foot.   
   
It hurts enough to make his eyes water, but he only laughs harder.   
   
She glowers; long and with practised vigour. Eventually, though, she does what he's come to like about her so much – she stops taking herself seriously and joins him. Her laughter is infectious; it echoes in the garage.   
   
"Back to teaching?" she asks after a while.   
   
"My pleasure," he answers with a bow.   
   
Ariadne takes his hands, pulls and moves at the same time. "Close abrazo," she explains to his raised eyebrows when she comes up flush against his chest. She's warm against him. Her hair still smells of freesias.   
   
"Just follow my lead," he instructs. "Mirror what I do."   
   
"Follow. Right."   
   
They begin to move.   
   
"One, two, three-and-four," he supplies, following the rhythm of the music for her benefit.   
   
"One, two, three-and-four. Follow." There's quite a lot of room in the mostly empty garage, but they still manage to cover it quickly. Ariadne has trouble following though, she keeps trying to lead – and isn't that her current problem with Arthur too – and Eames guesses that his feet will have bruises tomorrow.   
   
Her lower lip is stuck between her teeth in concentration. Her back is rigid, her grips on his hand and shoulder white-knuckled.   
   
"Follow, pet. Follow." He rubs his hand over her back, feels the bird-bone shoulderblades under his fingertips.   
   
She huffs in annoyance and he feels rather than sees it. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"   
   
"Mainly, I'm enjoying my feet intact, so how about we change tactics." He stops moving – she steps on his foot again – and pushes her at arm's length with a wince.   
   
"Sorry." She looks apologetic, flushed, and angry at the same time. It's a good look on her, he decides. "I told you I didn't know how to do this." She told him and he sees clearly that she hates the fact there's something she can't do.   
   
"That's why I'm teaching you. As I was saying, it's not the technique so much as it is the feeling. It's listening to your partner's lead."   
   
"Macho. You just enjoy bossing women around. You like getting under their skin."   
   
He raises an eyebrow at her, captures her gaze. "Do I now?" he asks, deliberately quiet. Her eyes are a deep brown. They flicker over his face, a mixture between stubborn and unsure.   
   
He pulls her against him once more, closer than before. Keeps his hand against the small of her back, pressing her against him. "If I really did," he says and lowers his voice deliberately, "I'd tell you that I can feel your heart beat against mine in the close _abrazo_. That I feel the warmth of your breasts through my shirt and it's heady. I'd tell you that your bra is lace-topped." He wants to tell her that he can feel her nipples but knows it'd be too much for what he's trying to achieve here. He files away her reaction, though. "I'd tell you that lace is vulnerable to teeth." Her breath hitches, her palm turns damp against his hand and he can't say why he enjoys winding her up, but he does. "But this is a lesson, not a seduction." He pulls back a fraction and hopes that she's seen the point he was trying to make. "So I'll tell you to step on my feet."   
   
She huffs a surprised laugh that goes through his shirt, making him realise that his teasing of her has had an effect on him, too. Her eyes meet his, amused. "What?"   
   
"Step on my feet," he repeats.   
   
"Why?"   
   
"Because you move like a newborn foal, all unsteady legs and too big feet." The last bit is a blatant falsehood. She has tiny feet, so small it wouldn't surprise him if she went shoe-shopping in the kids department.   
   
Her gaze snaps up to him, her look somewhere between offended and highly amused. "A real charmer, Mr. Eames."   
   
"I do my very best. Now, chop, chop."   
   
Ariadne swats his shoulder, then carefully puts her feet on his. She's not feather light, but light enough for him to start moving to the music with only a little difficulty at the added weight. Of course, he'll be sore as hell tonight, but it'll have been worth it. "Close your eyes and feel the music. Feel the way I'm moving."   
   
He keeps counting and explaining the steps aloud and it gets easier then. He lets her step off his feet again after a while and her moves become more natural. Far from perfect, but more natural. Fluid. She's a fast learner and an intuitive dancer once she lets go of her silly ideas of what is proper and what isn't.   
   
Once she is relaxed enough, he leads her into more elaborate figures and he can barely hear the music from the tiny laptop speakers over the sound of their feet on the floor and their heavy breathing. Sweat soaks his shirt and he feels hers damp over her back as well but she's flushed with excitement and a wide smile spreads over her face when she first goes through a figure without him having to count.   
   
She gets bolder, too, moves with him as well as against him. She gets it, he realises, gets the mixture of competitive and symbiotic that is the heart of the tango.   
   
He lets himself go for a while, concentrates on nothing but their moves and the way they dance together not perfectly but in harmony. Her enthusiasm is addictive; her scent heady. It's highly inappropriate, he knows it is, but he can't help but react to her. She's an attractive woman and he's not blind. So what if he drags this lesson out? She's not complaining and Arthur isn't here to reprimand him.   
   
When the music cuts out and they slow to a stop, however, Eames sees Arthur standing by the door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. His expression is blank and unreadable. Eames lets go of Ariadne's hand and steps back like the boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. It's an act for Arthur, though. Eames doesn't feel ashamed and he sure as hell isn't going to apologise. Work and fun don't have to be exclusive, after all, no matter what Arthur thinks.   
   
Surprisingly, though, Arthur uncrosses his arms and applauds. Slow, just a few claps. Mockery or honest admiration? Eames can't tell.   
   
Ariadne, still flushed, takes a bow. "Eames taught me," she says by way of explanation. She steps up to Arthur, seemingly oblivious to Arthur's mood, and extends a hand. "Do you know how to tango?"   
   
Arthur raises an eyebrow at Ariadne's hand. "I don't see how this is relevant."   
   
Ariadne rolls her eyes. "I'm going to design a dance hall, Arthur, so I think it's very relevant whether or not you know how to dance."   
   
"I know enough," Arthur answers, evasive and tries to walk toward the desk.   
   
Ariadne stops him with a hand flat to his chest. Arthur's gaze drops to her small hand on his tie. "Prove it."   
   
"I really don't see, how – "   
   
"It's not nice to deny a lady," Eames chimes in. He's curious, he'll admit that much. Arthur is long and lean, Eames has seen him move quick and efficient in dreams and outside of them, so he wonders if it'll translate to the dance floor. Eames walks back to the laptop and starts the music again.   
   
Arthur shakes his head and the ghost of a smile flits over his face. "Am I denying the lady or are you teaming up against me?"   
   
"Consider it a job interview," Ariadne says and walks backward so she's standing in the middle of the garage. She extends her hand again and waits.   
   
Arthur looks from her to Eames and back a couple of times, then, when neither of them relents, he shakes his head again. "Fine."   
   
He walks to the table, sets his bag down by the chair, then takes off his suit jacket and hangs it over the back. Loosens his tie and slides it off with a quiet swishing noise. It comes to rest against the jacket, a splash of subdued colour against charcoal grey.   
   
Ariadne is watching the display with the same curiosity Eames is. They share a glance, just for a moment, then Arthur joins Ariadne. He, too, is a lot taller than she is, but, god, they make a beautiful pair. Arthur reaches for Ariadne in the open _abrazo,_ but she moves in closer – Eames noticed earlier that she feels more comfortable with the added support of the close _abrazo_. Of course, Arthur can't know this and stiffens. Eames turns the music up as far as it'll go and calls; "Are you just going to stand there or are you going to dance?"   
   
The following display makes him wish he hadn't asked.   
   
Arthur is all determination and moves tight and contained, his back perfectly straight, all sinewy muscles and flawless steps. He's leading well, and doesn't rely on anything but his gaze holding Ariadne's. They click, from moment one, and her slightly unsure moves are immediately more secure with him. It's not passionate, just beautiful. Arthur's hand rests just under her shoulderblade where Eames knows her shirt is damp and hers is wrapped around Arthur's back, lower than technique requires. Eames wonders if Arthur's shirt is damp over his spine, too. Wonders how Arthur smells. The steps and his expensive, closely-tailored trousers accentuate his arse quite spectacularly. Ariadne holds him close enough to have her small breasts pressed against Arthur's chest. Eames remembers her reaction when he teased her earlier and fights a groan. Bad idea. This was a bad idea. This is too serious, they're too damn earnest, they're likely not even aware of how they look and Eames' mind supplies unbidden pictures all too easily.   
   
In a surprising moment of unpredictability Eames hadn't thought Arthur capable of, he spins Ariadne and she gives a surprised squeak that turns into a laugh when he catches her again, though. Arthur grins at her, cheeks dimpling. Eames wonders if he imagines the quick look Arthur throws in his direction.   
   
He gets his answer shortly after, and excuses himself to the bathroom, splashes water in his face and fights the urge to jerk off to the memory of Arthur dipping a laughing Ariadne and the look Arthur shot him over her arched torso.   
   
Not his imagination. Not at all.   
 

***

   
The lorry that's waiting on an earth road a few miles outside of Seinäjoki is so old, Eames is surprised it even made it here. A Tatra. Eames whistles low between his teeth. He'd never thought he'd see one of those up close again, even if this one is in a lamentable shape. The tarp covering the back is loose, covered with lichen and dirt, the tyres are worn, as good as cracked and have no discernible tread pattern. The boxy front of the lorry is pockmarked by rust. Once upon a time, it may have been green, but that can only be guessed at now. The windshield is caked with dead insects and dust, bad enough that Eames can't make out the driver.   
   
Drawing his gun is as natural as breathing. Arthur only told him to pick up their ride and after what happened to Ariadne, Eames would rather err on the side of caution. Though, really, if this is Arthur's idea of their ride, Eames will have to have a serious talk with him.   
   
He steps closer to the driver's door. The doorhandle is broken and rusty as well, it hangs at an awkward angle. The side window is missing and Eames sees... no one.   
   
There's no driver.   
   
Instead, there's cold steel against the back of his head, the all too familiar feel of a gun pressed against his skull. Eames curses himself for not being more attentive. He should have seen this coming.   
   
"If I didn't know better," a deep voice says, "I'd think Arthur's avoiding me." The gun moves, a cool trail against his scalp. "I'd even be tempted to say he doesn't trust me."   
   
The voice is deep, rough from too many cigarettes or too much alcohol or both, and heavily accented. Eames can't tell yet if it's male or female or why the hell it's so familiar.   
   
"Well, you know Arthur," Eames replies, his mind frantically turning over how to get out of this.   
   
"I think we both do," the voice says and the gun is replaced by fingers grabbing Eames' neck as if he were a bloody kitten. "Am I not right, Eames?"   
   
He's being turned around with enough force to give him bruises for days to come, but he manages to reach for his gun anyway – just not quickly enough before it's kicked away and he's on his knees in the Finnish dust. The hand is back on his neck, pressing his head down with the help of the gun against the top of his skull, so all he can see are very small, very bare, very dirty feet with specks of black motor oil on them. The dirt isn't permanent, though, and the toenails are painted a dark, perfect red.   
   
Definitely female. Strangely enough, it's the bare feet, the ballerina feet with the thick dead skin over healed blisters where those small feet have been compressed mercilessly into _pointe_ shoes which finally make all the jigsaw pieces slot together. She loves driving barefoot, because she hates closed shoes after the years of ballet. _Of all the people, Arthur. Of all the people you could have asked_ _–_   
   
"Miss me?" Katya lets go of Eames' neck but keeps the gun trained on him as she crouches in front of him.   
   
"Like a hole in the head."   
   
"Eames, Eames. People might think you harbour harsh feelings." She laughs, raucous and dirty, and it makes hundreds of little lines appear around her eyes. Time hasn't stopped for her, it appears. She pats his cheek. "It was just business. You of all people should know that."   
   
"Just business, huh?" he echoes. "Extracting the information and high-tailing out of the dream, leaving the projections to tear me apart, while making sure the subject woke up before me and then letting his goons almost bash my brains in while you sipped Martinis in the bar next door is just business to you?" It took him the better part of a year to recover from the attack. The amount of dental work he'd needed afterward had cost him a bloody fortune. "Have you even heard about honesty among thieves?"   
   
Katya gives him a look of deepest pity. "And here I thought you had learned."   
   
"Learned never to work with you again, yes."   
   
"Learned not to take things so personally. Didn't they teach you anything back at the SIS?"   
   
This is another one of his regrets. He never should have trusted her in the first place, never should have let her know about his previous line of work. But he'd loved her quick wit back then, her analytical, yet out-of-the-box thinking, her ability to hold her liquor and to arm-wrestle even strong men under the table. He'd loved the feel of her hair in his hands when she rode him, those strong thighs squeezed around him, and loved running his hand through it after, resting against her breasts. He'd just left the MI6 and was so glad to find someone structured and with strong organisational skills he could work with, someone he could trust in.   
   
Maybe she'd reminded him of Suz a little bit. Maybe it had just been a really bad idea and he'd been a stupid vengeful bloody fool without a place to go, but they'd made a good team for a while. She'd just been deactivated by her agency, and, needing an ally, as well as out of spite toward his old employer at Vauxhall Cross, he'd divulged more secrets between the sheets than he ever has to anyone before or since. That Katya left him for mere profit, left him to die and didn't come back, that she even sold his location to the MI6, is something he thought he'd come to terms with, but looking at her, at those damn laughing blue eyes, he knows that he still hasn't.   
   
"Though, really, it was a shame about that pretty face of yours." It's all the apology he'll ever get, Eames knows, and the whole situation is so absurd that he can't help but laugh.   
   
Katya lowers the gun and rests it on the ground next to her. Eames is under no illusion that he could get to it. She's playing with him, but he refuses to rise to the bait. "Arthur didn't mention you," she says.   
   
 _Yes, and I'm going to kill him for not mentioning you,_ Eames thinks. Instead he says, "He's a smart man."   
   
"You're working together now?" She whistles low between her teeth and gives him an appraising look. "Brains and looks times two. Potentially lethal." She grins. "Do you have vacancies?"   
   
"I've had my share of backstabbing, thanks."   
   
Katya draws a circle in the earth around the gun. "You're just no fun at all anymore."   
   
The sun is hot on the back of his neck and Eames is suddenly tired of playing. "What do you want here, Katya?"   
   
Her smile is quick and dark. "I want to protect my investment."   
   
"Since when do you do goon work?"   
   
"It's not punishment if you like it, is it?" It may or may not be truth, but Eames knows that Katya wouldn't divulge more even under torture. The KNB, Kazakh arm of the FSB, taught her well.   
   
"How much is he paying you?"   
   
She wags her finger at him. "Business, Eames."   
   
After a while she asks, conversationally, "So, what brings you here?"   
   
He flashes her a grin and imitates her tone of voice. "Business, Katya."   
   
She throws her head back and laughs that dirty, raucous laugh that haunted many of Eames' dreams for months after they parted ways. Memories are seeping from under the door in his mind he had thought locked for good and he pushes against it, wills it stronger, wills it sealed.   
   
"How about a ceasefire?" Katya ventures. "I tell you my story, you tell me yours?"   
   
Eames snorts. "And then you sell me to the highest bidder?"   
   
Katya gets up and leans against the Tatra; the chassis groans. "I doubt anyone outbids Sir Saito."   
   
Eames narrows his eyes and fights a visible reaction to the name. He knows that Saito dabbles in his own spots of shady business, but this? And most of all, does Arthur know about this connection?   
   
"Charming man, Saito," Katya says with a smile that tells him that she still sees right through him. "Willing to take risks."   
   
He rises, ignores the way his left knee makes a popping noise. "Cut to the chase."   
   
It's Katya's turn to narrow her eyes. "You used to be more playful."   
   
"We all grow up," Eames retorts.   
   
She gives him a long once-over. "That we do," she says and tips her thumb against her lower lip.   
   
Eames looks away; he knows the game she's playing, the buttons she's trying to push. He doesn't want to scratch at healed scars, though, not when the wounds she inflicted back then taught him a valuable lesson.   
   
"No probing questions? Not trying to out-smart me?"   
   
"Why waste time?" He wonders why she's pushing for a conversation when she used to be patient before.   
   
Her mouth slants down. "You used to like that game."   
   
"Is that hurt pride I see, Ertaeva?" Eames inclines his head, searches her face. Well, if that's not interesting. "Did you want me to hunt you down after Astana, the scorned lover seeking revenge?"   
   
A muscle under her left eye jumps and it's all the answer Eames needs. A slow smile spreads over his face. Score. He keeps his next words light, pleasant. "You're not that important."   
   
"How did you meet Arthur?" Katya asks, the distraction obvious.   
   
Eames crosses his arms over his chest. "Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters," he dead-pans. "He's the incredible Mr. Immaculate Suit."   
   
The reference coaxes a surprised smirk out of her. "He didn't mention he was working with you when he placed the order."   
   
An order Eames still doesn't know all the details about, but that's something Katya doesn't need to know. "He's a smart man. Generally speaking."   
   
"Until he asked for my help?" she asks with a smile.   
   
"I like it when you're self-aware."   
   
"You can't have a very high opinion of him if you mistrust his judgement so much."   
   
Eames snorts, raises an eyebrow. "Have you met yourself, Katya?"   
   
"Quite some time ago," she retorts. The smile turns into a smirk. "So has he." She gives Eames a suggestive wink. "Though I've got to say that you were the better lay."   
   
Eames' stomach contracts; his hands itch to be balled into fists. He relaxes them with some effort. "Arthur wouldn't waste time on a woman with dirt between her toes. As I said, he's a smart man."   
   
Katya blinks, surprised for the merest moment. Eames can see that she expected a different reaction.   
   
"All that restless energy in young men can be a bit tiring, but he has interesting hang-ups. Very sensitive spot below his ear," she continues, never taking her eyes off him, fighting dirty now. "Once you have that hair ruffled he even gets creative. And he's quite... thorough." She rolls her shoulders, stretching like a cat, a low hum on her lips. "It's all that determination, I think." She waits for a reaction. When he doesn't give her one, she adds, "You don't know that, do you?" She turns to him fully. "You just wish you knew."   
   
Eames chuckles. "Katya, Katya. Do you really think that after three years, you still know me?"   
   
"Eames, please." She scrutinises him. "I know your type and our dear Arthur fits it to the T."   
   
She's right on target and he damns himself to hell for ever telling her so much about himself . But it's been three years. He was a different man back then and she's firing blind. "Oh, yeah? What's my type, then?"   
   
"The smart, dark, loyal one who makes you work for his affection, who makes you think on your feet, the one you connect to on a cerebral level. It's never just about the physical with you, has it?" She narrows her eyes, reaches out a hand and runs her fingertips over his bare lower arm, disturbing the hair there. The sensation brings back too many memories but Eames fights the shiver of awareness. "But there's eye-candy there as well, isn't there?" Katya continues. "And you're just dying to get your hands on him. Tell me, Eames, if you haven't fucked him yet, have you at least kissed?"   
   
Eames feels his heart speed up with the wish to lash out. He has to suppress several nervous ticks to keep them from resurfacing. "Have you?" he retorts. "Or did he pay?"   
   
Her hand sinks down and her answering grin is more teeth than amusement. "Darling. That very nearly hurt."   
   
Eames sneers. "Terribly sorry." That it didn't.   
   
Katya searches his face for a few moments, then shrugs. "Well, if you won't make a move, maybe I should go and see him – "   
   
Eames does clench his hand then, hard enough to leave a bruise on his upper arm. "Let me make one thing very clear," he says, forcing his voice into something smooth and melodious, "Arthur's free to do whatever the hell he wants. He's not my pet and I don't own him, so if he wants to sleep with you, that's his decision." He uncrosses his arms, reaches for a hard candy in his trouser pocket and unwraps it, the wrapper crackling loudly. "But if you double-cross him," he says, popping the candy into his mouth, "I will hunt you down and kill you."   
   
Katya's eyebrows climb up her forehead. "I almost think you're serious." She takes a step closer, scrutinises him with her very own brand of unnerving calm. "You really have changed, haven't you?" She runs her fingertip over a scar above his eyebrow, a permanent reminder of her betrayal.   
   
Eames jerks away. "What do you want?"   
   
A breeze blows some of her long, loose hair into her face, making her look younger than she is. Eames sees first grey in the blond. He sees a slant to her mouth that's bitter instead of playful.   
   
Katya shrugs. "Maybe I don't want anything," she says and tips her head back so it rests against the tarp. "Maybe I really just wanted to deliver my merchandise." She pokes her elbow to his side. "Don't you want to check?"   
   
"No," Eames answers. "You always deliver what you get paid to acquire." It's the one thing he's sure of.   
   
They stand in silence for long minutes, Katya with her eyes closed, for all the world enjoying the sun on her face, Eames eyeing the gun on the ground, wondering if he can get to it if he distracts her. He gives up on the idea quickly. Katya's closed eyes don't mean she's let her guard down.   
   
"I had given up on you then," she suddenly says, finally saying what she's been dancing around the entire time. Eames isn't sure if he's ready to hear an explanation. "You were so ready to self-destruct, so intent on gambling your life away... " she pushes some hair from her face but keeps her eyes closed, "that you became a wildcard."   
   
And in a structured world like the one Katya lived in, wildcards had to be cut loose.   
   
"Is that an apology?"   
   
She shrugs. "If it makes you feel better."   
   
It doesn't, but Eames is surprised to find that he doesn't care anymore.   
   
Katya gets restless eventually when he doesn't give her a reply. "Are we going to stand here forever or are you going to give a lady a lift into town?"   
   
He frowns. "Don't tell me you came without back-up."   
   
She doesn't answer, flashes him a sphinx's smile. "Key's in the ignition," Katya says, pushes off the lorry and climbs into the passenger seat. She opens the driver's door from the inside. "Coming?"   
 

***

   
Katya fires a last poisoned dart when he drops her off at a petrol station. "By the way, do you have a different MO now, Eames?"   
   
He frowns, the, "What?" tumbles out before he can stop himself.   
   
Katya climbs out of the dusty seat; her feet hit the ground with nary a sound. Ballerina still. "Do all your co-workers have underworld bounties on their heads these days?"   
   
Eames narrows his eyes at her. "What do you mean?"   
   
Katya smiles, keeps her hand on the lorry's door, her index finger tapping lightly against it. "Your little architect."   
   
Eames bites back on Ariadne's name, but just barely. He doesn't ask how the hell Katya even knows about Ariadne, just curses himself for being sloppy enough that Katya could connect the dots. "What about her?"   
   
"There's a two million Euro bounty on her head," Katya says, the price rolling off her tongue with a certain glee. "You might want to watch out for her."   
   
"You won't get her." His voice is toneless. "Not her and not Arthur, do you hear me?"   
   
"I'm not trying to."   
   
His eyebrows shoot up to his forehead. "It's two million. Why not?"   
   
She smiles and he knows to not believe a word she's going to say next, prepares himself for yet another lie.   
   
Katya walks around the car, opens his door and rests a hand on his knee. The warmth of her hand burns through the fabric of his trousers. "Because I like you, Eames." Damn it if she doesn't look and sound sincere. "Always have." She squeezes his leg, just once, five points of heat and quick pain against his skin. "Call me sentimental."   
   
With that, she's off, walks into the petrol station. By the time he's out of the lorry to follow her, she has disappeared.   
   
He doesn't believe it for a minute, but maybe Katya is forward thinking enough to know a one time bounty isn't half what she'll make from an Arthur in the business. Eames doesn't believe she's sentimental, but greed... Greed, he believes in.   
 

***

   
The truck that Arthur and Eames show up with in the late afternoon is ratty, run-down and absolutely fitting for the part of town they're in. The garage door protests with a loud screeching noise as Ariadne opens it. Arthur backs up the truck's rear into the garage and Eames opens the hatch to climb inside. On the truck's deck Ariadne sees an ambulance van, covered in some Slavic language she's not familiar with.   
   
Her eyes widen as Eames rolls it down the ramp. "Do I even want to know where you got this?" she asks, feigning annoyance when really she's both fascinated and horrified.   
   
Eames shrugs. "Probably not." He walks back outside to talk to Arthur.   
   
Her mind unwillingly provides her with the question of how many people will not receive medical attention because this van is missing. She knows, though, that this is a line of thinking she will have to let go of if she ever wants to become successful in this line of business.   
   
She strolls around the ambulance, runs her hand over the gleaming white paint job, and peers inside. She's only ever been in an ambulance once, during college, when over-worried friends called one for her after she'd crashed following a night of too little sleep and too much caffeine. She remembers the sinking feeling of reading all the plates on the drawers, wondering about what it would be to lie in one of these ambulances with a limb torn off.   
   
She's lost in thought, so she misses the beginning of the conversation between Eames and Arthur. That and the cutting tone Eames uses make her reach for her totem. She's only ever heard him sound that way when he's extremely angry and if she's learned one thing during the time they've worked together it is that Eames doesn't get angry easily. He quips and teases and ridicules, but considers getting angry a waste of energy. Ariadne clenches her hand around her totem and steps out from behind the garage door.   
   
"It's a bad idea," Eames hisses.   
   
"Did you have a better one?"   
   
"Any idea would have been better than to use Katya's help."   
   
"We don't have the luxury of a taking the moral high road here, Eames."   
   
"Funny. That should be my line."   
   
"Then why isn't it?" Arthur whirls around to face Eames. "What's your problem?"   
   
Eames narrows his eyes. "Do you know what Katya did before she started working in dreamshare?"   
   
Ariadne inches another step forward, glad that they haven't seen her yet. Who the hell is Katya?   
   
Arthur squares his shoulders, like he's suddenly on the defensive. A muscle in his jaw jumps. "The same as you?"   
   
Eames' face loses all colour and it might be the very first time that Ariadne has ever seen him at a loss for words. She wants to demand answers, but something in the way Eames and Arthur stare at each other stops her.   
   
After what seems like a small eternity, Eames shrugs. "Touché," he says. It sounds brittle in a way that makes Ariadne wonder just what the backstory of this is. He gets into the truck, starts the motor with a sputtering roar. "I'll get rid of this."   
   
Arthur is pale when he walks back into the garage and walks as though on eggshells.   
   
Ariadne debates for a moment whether or not to show that she's eavesdropped, but in the end, curiosity wins. "So," she says, her arms crossed over her chest. "Who's Katya?"   
   
Arthur's gaze snaps to her, eyes narrowed. She just raises an eyebrow in return. It's a challenge, conveying that she's unwilling to be intimidated.   
   
Arthur forcibly relaxes his stance. It's an effort, though, and she sees it. "An old acquaintance able to get us what we need." Nice and smooth and probably true, but oh so far from the whole story. It's all she's going to get, though, and strangely enough, she's fine with it for the moment, mainly because she's glad he didn't evade the question altogether.   
   
"At what price?" she asks, tapping her index finger against her upper arm.   
   
Arthur shrugs. "What's it to you?"   
   
"If you're selling our souls, I'd like to know," she answers, careful not to inflect an accusation.   
   
"Don't worry, Gretchen, you're safe." Arthur's smile isn't nice. "All that's suffering is my bank account."   
   
One thing is rankling, though, and she can't help the question that comes tumbling out next. "Eames knew?"   
   
"In part, yes."   
   
She throws her hands up, feels the same indignation welling up that she thought she'd battled with Eames' help. "Then what do you need me for, huh?" she snaps, turning toward the table with jerky movements and sitting down on one of the chairs. "You and Eames seem to have everything nicely under control on your own."   
   
Ariadne hears Arthur sigh, then he crouches in front of her and traps her gaze with his. "This is a joint effort, Ariadne," he says, earnestly. "We can't do this without you."   
   
"Sweet-talking me won't help," she says with narrowed eyes, but oh, she's a liar. Of course it does. And, of course, he knows.   
   
Arthur opens the box he took out of the truck earlier and hands her the picture of an ambulance. "I need this ambulance to look exactly like the one in this picture." It means a complete colour change including the writing on it. He doesn't ask her if she can manage.   
   
Ariadne looks at the tools and the cans of paint. "How much time do I have?"   
   
Arthur smiles, and this time, it's genuine. "Two days."   
   
"What about the dream?"   
   
The smile slips a little. "Two days as well."   
   
Ariadne takes a deep breath. She doesn't say that it's impossible, even though it very nearly is. "You'll have to take me under with you."   
   
Arthur looks uncomfortable, his face pinched, but he nods. "Yes."   
   
To her surprise, there's no discussion, no argument, nothing. Ariadne realises that Eames was right about Arthur and her. The only one who had a problem with her professionalism was her. It's a sobering realisation.   
 

***

   
They end up in the garage after Ariadne has applied the first coat of paint to the ambulance. The smell of solvent is heavy in the air despite the open door.   
   
"Research hasn't shown anything about training," Arthur says and Eames knows that after the Fischer job, Arthur wouldn't voice such a statement if he weren't one hundred percent certain. "So why don't we run with that?"   
   
"Use the inexperience, you mean?" Eames asks and rubs his chin in thought.   
   
Arthur nods. "If he doesn't suspect anything, the dream could just be one of his own. The more unlikely we make it, the less there's a chance that he'll expect something."   
   
Ariadne inches closer, then pulls her chair over the concrete floor with a loud scraping noise to get closer to them. She perches on it; the posture reminds Eames of an excited bird. "Do you remember when you told us that nothing he said or did online formed a picture we could work with? That everything was too disconnected?"   
   
Arthur nods again. "Yeah. And I still stand by it. It won't do us any good if we design a dream around Aztec mummies if that's not something that would hold his interest for more than half a minute in real life. He'd know."   
   
"So why not create it around Aztec mummies in Greece in an Egyptian tomb that looks like a Chinese pagoda on speed with unicorns dancing the tango around it?"   
   
Eames lifts an eyebrow, impressed. "How long did you need to get that out without tripping over your tongue?"   
   
Ariadne gives him the finger, then turns to Arthur. "Maybe that's a bad example, but why don't we use what we have? A little bit of everything he showed in interest in. And the tango at the centre of it."   
   
Arthur's frown makes way to raised eyebrows – one always a little higher than the other at this point, Eames has noticed – and a furrowed forehead that doesn't speak of scepticism but of intrigue. "That... " Arthur begins, trails off, checks his notebook. "That might just be brilliant, Ariadne."   
   
Ariadne leans back in her chair with a small smile that's smug in a charming way. Eames can't help but smile back, but sobers quickly.   
   
"You're going to run yourself to the ground with the nuances."   
   
"Not if you take me with you."   
   
Eames shakes his head. He's seen architects attempt what she's trying here and it has never once ended well.   
   
Ariadne catches his look, inches toward the front of the chair again, and stretches out her hand in his direction, palm up. "Look, we're pressed for time, I get that, but I can't teach you the layout in what little time we have. Besides, with this kind of variety of options, we'll have to be able to make changes within seconds should he get suspicious. I know you're both good, but can either of you change a layout that quickly after what happened last time?"   
   
Eames fights the urge to slam his eyes shut. Bile rises in his throat when the memory of his skin bubbling climbs to the surface again. Next to him, he hears Arthur take a sharp breath.   
   
Ariadne's next words are gentle. "We can make this work. Together. Only together." She clasps her hands together tightly, thumbs parallel, leaning forward as if to convey her commitment, and says, "We're a team."   
   
Eames eyes her hands and wonders if she' just stopped herself from reaching out for his hand or Arthur's. Arthur looks pale and stressed out, but after a second he nods. If Arthur can give in, then Eames can, too. He flashes an only mildly faked grin and says, "Of course we are, pet."   
   
"Un pour tous, tous pour un." Ariadne's French is accented but fluent and she smiles at him.   
   
Now Eames' smile turns real. "Does that make you D'Artagnan?"   
   
"No," Arthur says, snapping the elastic band around his notebook, "it makes you Porthos."   
   
Ariadne throws a wadded up piece of sketch paper at Arthur's head, saving Eames from having to retaliate when he really doesn't feel like it.   
   
Her smile slips for a moment, there's steel hidden under the deceptively young and girlish exterior. "Do we have a deal?"   
   
"Do we need to perform an interpretive dance to make it official?"   
   
Ariadne's eyebrow rises, speculative. "Tempting."   
   
Eames catches her gaze, sees something lurking there, something she's not allowing to surface.   
   
"Let's get to work, then," Arthur says, impatient, and Ariadne gets up, ducking from under Eames' look. 


	7. The Riddle of the Sphinx

Ariadne knocks on the ambulance's door and Eames opens it, dressed in a paramedic's uniform. He accepts the semi-conscious man, helps her inside as well and closes the door behind her. The tango music blaring outside is muffled to a dull thudding of the bass once the door is shut.   
   
Their plan worked well, and once again, it was laughably easy. Ariadne sidled up to Saarela in disguise, bought him a drink and slipped a mickey into it. Once Saarela was starting to sway, Ariadne had called for paramedics, and Arthur and Eames had shown up, taking Saarela to the ambulance waiting in a side-street of the club.   
   
Saarela is asleep on the gurney by the time she's taken off her wig.   
   
"Good work," Arthur says as he sets up the PASIV.   
   
Ariadne nods, warmed by the compliment, knowing that Arthur's sparse with them.   
   
"Ready?" Eames asks.   
   
Arthur and Ariadne confirm once they have the velcro bands around their wrists.   
   
"Timer's set for seven and a half minutes."   
   
Giving them one and a half hours in the dream, Ariadne surmises.   
   
"Sweet dreams," Ariadne hears Eames say.   
   
 _'Not this time,'_ she thinks as the Somnacin floods her veins.   
 

***

   
The dream begins in a huge glass elevator that glides them horizontally rather than vertically through a night sky dotted with stars. The floor is glass too and Eames' stomach does a weird flip-flop when he sees nothing but star-dotted darkness surrounding them. Nothing below their feet, nothing above but those distant stars. His stomach drops again; he has never been good with heights, something Suz mocked endlessly, and only a certain amount of alcohol involved would make her shut up about it. He's glad Arthur doesn't know and keeps his expression blank.   
   
"Part of the maze?" Arthur asks.   
   
Eames sees a smile flit over Ariadne's face. "Wait for it."   
   
The elevator now moves both horizontally and vertically, creating a feeling of being dropped and pushed at the same time, sliding down though it stays level, and Eames is just about to clench his hand around the railing before it finally stops. The door glides open and they step out into a desert that stretches as far as the eye can see. Slow, like leviathans, columns are rising from the sand, white marble that gleams even in the dim starlight. Eames turns around and as the door closes, the elevator disappears, leaving them behind in the eerie light of the stars and a cold, blue-white moon.   
   
Where the elevator faded away, the sands whirl and rise, slowly uncovering a large, spotless black surface, lustrous as Chinese lacquer. It reflects the light and Eames sees their own reflections in it as well; he and Arthur in tuxedos, Ariadne in a slinky, low-cut black dress with her hair pulled up in a knot and one dark strand gelled and curled against her cheek.   
   
More columns climb from the sand, followed by walls and buildings reminiscent of Greek, Egyptian and Asian styles, a strange mish-mash of marble and limestone, all deathly pale and forbidding in size. The buildings group around the square black floor and on the closest walls, frescos appear of dancers in intimate tango-poses. Despite the two-dimensional surfaces, the frescos seem alive enough to make Eames think he can _hear_ the music they're dancing to. They are eerie companions in the absolute silence of Ariadne's creation.   
   
It's what strikes Eames the most – the silence. The only thing he hears is the sound of each of them breathing. The buildings rise endlessly with no sound at all, no wind, no hiss of sand, nothing. It makes him want to whistle.   
   
"Say, pet, are you – "   
   
"Shhh!" Ariadne has her eyes wide open but appears to see nothing except for what her inner eye sees. She's really _creating_ and Eames realises that he's never actually watched an architect create. He's seen sketches, layouts, seen them fine-tune, but the actual act of creation happens in private. He will admit that he's impressed, maybe even intimidated. A quick look at Arthur shows him a similar sentiment on Arthur's usually well-guarded features.   
   
Eames wonders if Arthur thinks the same as he's thinking – that they're completely at her mercy due to this approach to the dream. If they lose Ariadne in this, they'll never find a way out. They'll be lost until the time runs out or they kill each other. It's not exactly a comforting thought.   
   
Pylons emerge from the ground; large, gate-like buildings. The frescos on them are larger than life. Leading up and away to them are long rows of statues of animal-like creatures made from black onyx. Around the black square they're standing on, more and more Doric columns rise, so high they shadow the vast moon. Beyond the columns, creatures loom that Eames can't make out in the gray twilight and he finds himself wishing for better illumination.   
   
Next to him, Arthur looks at his wristwatch. "You have five more minutes until he's here," he cautions. They have the PASIV set up to only inject Saarela with the Somnacin twenty seconds after they've gone under to give Ariadne the time to set everything up.   
   
Ariadne's forehead wrinkles in concentration. "I'm adding the finishing touches."   
   
When Eames looks toward the columns next, there are fine-featured marble statues of male and female angels with torches in their hands lining the black square. With all the white around it, the square they're standing on feels like a black hole ready to swallow them. Eames feels even dizzier than he did in the glass elevator.   
   
The monochrome feeling eases as the light from the angel's torches hits the columns. Where Eames would have expected palm trees, there are olives and vibrant green creeping vines gliding around the columns. It looks as though they're choking the life out of them. Filigree metal tables melt from the trees, bouquets of blood-red roses on them. Ariadne's moving away from the Egyptian theme to incorporate various other styles; latticed, Indian influences reminiscent of the honeycomb of the beehive-style of the Hawa Mahal, Mayan staircases, Thai stupas, Cambodian face-towers with their still, bland faces; the melange making the whole thing strange enough to be completely convincing.   
   
The maze ends up huge and yet not overcrowded with the amount of detail involved.   
   
Ariadne blinks a couple of times, then says, "There."   
   
Apparently, she finished just in time, because Eames hears the first strings of music, loud in the silence between the pilasters. It's still wavering, as though Saarela's subconscious can't quite decide on the tune, but to Eames' relief, it turns into the melancholy sound of a bandoneon quickly. There's movement to their right; Arthur whirls toward it, but there's nothing to see. Just the murals and frescos staring at them with piercing, kohl-rimmed eyes.   
   
"Where the hell are his projections?" Arthur asks and Eames admits to having asked himself the same question. For someone as untrained as Saarela, it's highly unusual to not have any projections in his dream. After all, in the first dream, there were plenty.   
   
"It's a large maze," Ariadne tries to pacify. "We might just not be where the party's at yet. But let me see what I can do to get the party to us."   
   
The columns move, opening the view to the line of animal-like statues. A long red carpet washes up from the ground and comes to rest on the sand without a speck of dust on it. The angel's torches light up, one after the other. Far in the distance, a small figure carefully sets foot on the carpet.   
   
The music grows louder as Saarela walks closer and to their left and right, couples come into view, starting to sway to the music.   
   
Once again, something to the side moves, and this time it's Eames who spins toward it. Just out of the corner of his eyes, he sees one of the frescos move, its long, dark eyes following Eames' movement. "Christ," he utters and fights a shiver. "Overdoing it a bit there, Ariadne?"   
   
"What?"   
   
Eames points at the wall. "The bloody fresco just blinked at me!"   
   
Arthur raises an eloquent eyebrow at him.   
   
Ariadne stifles a laugh behind her hand. "Seriously. I thought you were a big boy."   
   
"Do you think I'm seeing things?" Eames takes her by the hand, Arthur by the shoulder, and pushes them to look at the pylon's walls.   
   
Above their heads, the gigantic frescos move, at first quickly as though in an ancient copy of a silent movie, then slow as molasses, their heads several feet away from their bodies and they end up staring at Arthur, Ariadne, and him from dead eyes, their gazes hard and accusing.   
   
"Fuck," Arthur breathes. Eames feels a shudder run through Ariadne's frame.   
   
"I think we found his missing projections."   
   
Arthur turns away from the pylon and back to the carpet. Eames hears a sharp intake of breath and fights the urge to whirl around. "Do I want to know?"   
   
"Well," Arthur says, trying for nonchalant but falling just short of it. "I have a feeling Ariadne hit a nerve on the Egyptian theme. And the frescos? Are a kid's party compared to... " He inclines his head gesture toward something just behind Eames.   
   
When Eames does turn, he sees Saarela step up to the black square – a dance floor, Eames now notices – in the company of a gigantic winged figure with a female upper body and the arms and legs of a lion. A jet-black, bloody sphinx. The face is beautiful and serene and Eames would be fascinated instead of unnerved if it weren't for the red gleam in the creature's eyes as it watches the dancers and the razor-sharp claws it keeps flexing.   
   
"Did you – ?"   
   
Ariadne shakes her head very slowly, her gazed glued to the sphinx. "Those things have scared me since I first saw one in a book."   
   
"As well they should." Eames remembers the Greek and Egyptian myth surrounding these creatures. "They're not exactly cuddly kittens."   
   
"I'll say," Arthur comments, bone dry, as the sphinx bares its teeth.   
   
The projections on the dance floor turn in tighter circles now, as far away from the creature as possible. Both Saarela and the sphinx are watching the dance floor, watching the projections dance the tango. Whenever the sphinx hisses, Saarela looks up, then back to the dance floor, frowns and nods. There's a mutual understanding between them, not as though she's his pet, but as though she's his partner, maybe even his lover. Eames sees Ariadne shudder from the corner of his eyes when the sphinx bows its head and Saarela places his hand against her cheek, gentle. The back of his hand is pale and tiny against the black face.   
   
Next to them, a projection stumbles through a figure and the sphinx hisses, louder than before. For a moment, there is absolute silence, even the music has stopped and all Eames hears is the sound of breathing and the screeching of the sphinx's claws against the polished surface of the dance floor. Ariadne's fingers bite into his wrist suddenly, she holds her breath, and Eames desperately wants to turn around and see what she's seeing but his gaze is glued to the dance floor, to the sphinx abruptly pouncing on the stumbling couple, tearing them to pieces. Their screams drown in the sound of its roar. There are specks of blood on the floor when it finishes rending and consuming the two dancers. The surface drinks the blood down; the last of the stains disappear within seconds to leave the dance floor perfectly spotless and shining once more. Eames looks to Arthur, sees his eyes widen and a muted look of horror on his face.   
   
"Fuck." Ariadne's palm is sweaty.   
   
"What?"   
   
Ariadne tugs him toward her, motions to the fresco with her chin. A new couple has appeared on the pylon. A perfect copy of the two dancers who were just killed. They dance with their limbs torn.   
   
Ariadne stares at the fresco; she looks more fascinated than horrified and Eames has a hard time knowing whether to be impressed or freaked out by that.   
   
"How the hell do we extract the information we need?" Ariadne asks after a while.   
   
It's Arthur who answers the question. "If you were the mark, and you were thrown into a scene like this and had something to hide, what kind of sentinel would you choose?"   
   
Ariadne thinks for a moment, her bottom lip trapped between her teeth. "Cheshire Cat over there?"   
   
Eames nods, this time definitely amused by her lack of respect.   
   
"But why? Why does he need her to hide his secret?"   
   
"I would think that with a name like yours, you'd be familiar with ancient mythology."   
   
She pulls a face. "My father was a fan of Agatha Christie. My name has nothing to do with Greek mythology."   
   
Eames remembers her reaction to his choice of TV show the other day and fights a smile. It's nice to have things fall into place.   
   
"You were named after a character in Hercule Poirot?" Arthur asks, incredulous.   
   
Eames looks at him, brows arched. "And here I thought I was the geek."   
   
"Can we get back to the task at hand here?" Ariadne says, her tone making it clear that she's unwilling to discuss this any further.   
   
Eames picks up a rose from one of the vases and twirls it between his fingers, masking the nervous tick as yet another way to annoy Arthur. "Arthur, why don't you let her in on the legend of the sphinx?"   
   
"Legend says," Arthur begins and reminds Eames of his grade five history teacher, just a lot more attractive, "that the sphinx, monstrous daughter of Typhon and Echidna, guarded the entrance to the Greek city Thebes."   
   
"Ah, yes," Eames says with a shrewd smile. "Theban pederasty. I wonder if that was the crime for which they got this lovely lady bestowed on them."   
   
Arthur rolls his eyes but ignores him. "The sphinx asked a riddle of any traveller who wished to visit the city."   
   
"So did many get through?" Ariadne leans her shoulder against the wall. The fresco behind her moves to make room for her. Eames trains his gaze on Ariadne's face; he fights a shudder.   
   
Arthur smiles. "Just one."   
   
She quirks a brow. "Must have been bad for tourism."   
   
Eames grins and is surprised to see Arthur do the same. "I think the fact that those who couldn't answer the question were killed and devoured by the sphinx was even worse for tourism."   
   
Ariadne glances at the sphinx and shivers. "That would explain what we saw just now." She rubs her hands over her upper arms, chasing away goosebumps. "So who was the one who got through?"   
   
"Oedipus."   
   
"Mr. I-kill-my-father-and-marry-my-mother-go-insane-and-gauge-my-eyes-out?"   
   
"The same."   
   
"Huh," she says. "How did he – "   
   
"He solved the riddle and the sphinx killed herself."   
   
Ariadne frowns, looking disappointed. "That's kind of an anti-climax."   
   
"Not from where Oedipus was standing, I'd wager," Eames says.   
   
"So, how does this help us here? I haven't heard all that many riddles being asked. All I saw was a couple being killed for bad dancing."   
   
"Try not to be too literal," Arthur says.   
   
"Remember what Arthur said about the tango festival in town? About the contest?"   
   
Ariadne stops rubbing her hands over her arms and stretches her hand out, in an abortive gesture, as though trying to stop her own thoughts. Understanding dawns on her face. "You mean he's mixed up myth with real life?"   
   
"I think that whoever wins this contest gets to Saarela's secret. Whatever the hell it is."   
   
"So," Ariadne says, looking sceptical. "I guess it's all going to be strictly ballroom?"   
   
"Nah. Be a little more footloose," Eames counters and reaches for her hand.   
   
"Go on, Ginger. Show Fred how it's done," Arthur says and blends into the night. The unspoken 'don't mess this up' hangs heavy in the air.   
   
Eames pulls Ariadne onto the black square. She struggles for only a short moment, then Eames feels her shut down her initial response. She moves with him, better than they rehearsed in real life.   
   
"Care to let me in?" she asks.   
   
"If I'm not entirely mistaken, Arthur would prefer us to play by the book," Eames explains.   
   
"And what do you think?"   
   
"Me?" Eames leads her through a couple of elegant figures. "I think that perfection won't cut it. I think we'll need a little more originality."   
   
She smiles a mischievous smile and he can't help but dip her without warning, in an unorthodox breach of dance protocol. Her face is flushed when he pulls her up again, he sees the high colour in her cheeks a lot better now that it's brighter. High colour and... shock. When Eames looks away from her face, he sees one of the marble angels standing right next to them, its torch held high, illuminating them like they're in a flickering spotlight.   
 

***

   
The spotlight effect startles Ariadne – it isn't part of her architecture, though it results from it. She follows Eames' lead as he tries to dance them away from it, and suppresses her startle reflex when she hears Arthur's voice.   
   
"We're not here to play, Eames," Arthur admonishes, from the shadows beside the angel, looking unamused. "Get your head in the game.   
   
"My head, dear Arthur, is always in the game," Eames informs him. His hand around hers tightens. The thread of anger hiding just beneath the easy tone tells Ariadne that Arthur has seriously pissed Eames off.   
   
Arthur's mouth turns down in a sneer. "If only."   
   
"Oh, come on." Eames rolls his eyes. "It's not the most pleasant situation in the world, so improvise a little!" He winks at Arthur, then he pulls Ariadne off to the _pista_ with a sweeping gesture. It's a less than good-natured tease and more of a challenge. Over Eames' shoulder, Ariadne can see Arthur's jaw work. She thinks she hears him gnash his teeth and once more she wonders just what the hell crawled up his ass and died there. He's become a control-freak, far more than he was before. Now, as Eames decisively, effortlessly leads her, she should feel at ease, but even that is marred. There's something thrumming underneath Eames' movements, brittle anger maybe, something he tries to hide behind brash moves and jokes.   
   
"What's going on here, Eames?" she asks as he turns her in a _media_ _vuelta_.   
   
"We're dancing," he answers. "And trying not to get killed."   
   
"No shit, Sherlock." She swats his shoulder.   
   
He pulls her into a closer _abrazo_ and laughs. "I have no idea what you're talking about."   
   
She glances toward the sphinx still eyeing the dancers; she's watching Arthur as well. "Arthur's tense. Does he have it under control?"   
   
Eames chuckles. It doesn't sound amused. "That's a loaded question, isn't it?"   
   
She pulls back a little. "Eames."   
   
"Ariadne."   
   
"If there's something going on here, I need to know. I'm in this along with you." She looks at the sphinx and fights a shudder. "My ass is on the line as well."   
   
"Mmmh, and a fine one it is." He gives her a wide grin and dips her before she can hit him again.   
   
When he brings her up again, they're right in front of Saarela and the sphinx. Saarela appears to be the one helping it decide and Ariadne realises that, yes, Eames' head really does never leave the game.   
   
She wonders how they'll manage it, though. Her dance moves are smoother here than in real life, but she's far from winning material. They'll have to think of something better than just a regular dance to be the last ones standing in this competition.   
   
Eames spins her, then they're back to where they left Arthur. Eames lets go of her hand and reaches for Arthur instead. He pulls Arthur into an _abrazo_ and Ariadne sees Saarela raise an eyebrow and inch closer. Eames' show with Arthur piques his interest and leaves Ariadne to wonder if Eames hasn't chosen exactly the right strategy. Arthur pushes Eames away, though, turns, and reaches for Ariadne instead, leading her over the _pista_ in a series of elegant and long _salida_ _cruzadas_. The sphinx follows them, her eyes a burning red and those razor claws, still blood-stained, flex in the sand.   
   
"What the hell are you two doing? This isn't a game," he hisses against her ear, his warm breath skittering down her bare neck in angry puffs.   
   
She leans against him heavily, their chests touching and she tips her head up, whispering against the skin just above the collar of his shirt, "Trying to win so we don't get killed. Trying something unorthodox. You should a least try to play along. There is no plan to follow, here. Just go with the flow."   
   
His hands tighten around hers, hurting her. "There is always a plan."   
   
"Learn to improvise." She knows she's playing with fire here. He's been in this job for years, she for mere months. It doesn't mean, however, that he knows everything.   
   
"If I didn't know how to, I wouldn't be here."   
   
The first projections are beginning to stare at them. Ariadne feels the distinct stab of a marble elbow into her back when the statue creeps in to hold the burning torch closer to them.   
   
"Shit, Arthur." It's her turn to hiss. "This is a dance without rules." A dance to the death, she thinks. "We need something unorthodox, something the others don't have." She grabs his hand tighter, matching his grip and begins to lead instead of following. "You know what passion is, right?"   
   
His eyes flash at the taunt even as he is obviously surprised at her sudden boldness. He falters for a few steps, looking at something over her shoulder. Eames, she thinks, and she wonders what he's doing that makes a jolt run through Arthur's frame.   
   
Arthur snaps back into his role. He straightens, lets go of her, leaving her exposed in the middle of Saarela's projections, with the sphinx eyeing her with a terrifying interest. He takes off his jacket and throws it toward the edge of the _pista_. Arthur actually _poses_ – rigid posture, taut as a bowstring, arms stretched to the side with his palms toward her. An invitation as well as a threat. Ariadne takes a sharp breath, then takes a step toward him, winks and crooks her index finger in a come-hither motion. His eyes narrow as he advances, _amague_ , but she evades and they circle each other like birds of prey for several long moments, never breaking eye-contact. Her heart slams in her chest when her lizard brain recognises danger, but it's too late.   
   
All bets are off. His moves are no longer studied, no longer planned. She can feel the electric current of anger thrumming through him. It makes her wonder if she'll burn when he touches her, but it's too late to worry about that, too.   
   
He takes to the display easily and she should have expected this, should have known that Arthur never does anything half-assed. Finally, he reaches for her, and the strength of his hand as it comes to rest just below her ribcage is arousing as it pulls her flush against him. She feels his heart slam against his chest, his breath speed up. He tips her a little, runs his free hand along her side. She gathers her wits and lifts her right foot, rubs her calf against his. Eames' gaze is heavy on her from across the _pista_. Saarela watches, too; from the corner of her eye she sees him taking notes and whispering to the obsidian-faced sphinx.   
   
Arthur brings her up again and leads her, _volcados_ , in a tight circle before propelling her into a series of _colgadas_ which take her off her axis even more than the _volcados_ did and make her dizzy.   
   
Each new turn is more hard-edged than the last and this isn't an outcome she imagined when she mocked his lack of passion. When he pulls her back against him, arms going around her and pressing their chests together _Milonguero_ -style, she resists, struggles against his grip in tune with the music that picks up, faster and faster, until her head spins just as she spins, but she's in control of this now and pushes back. She feels dryness on the back of his neck beneath her fingertips where there would be sweat in the real world. Ariadne digs her nails in, feels more than hears Arthur hiss, and then he spins her again, far enough away that she can pull a little harder, until his hand leaves hers and she falls, falls until another hand catches hers and pulls her in a swift and elegant move against yet another chest – Eames'.   
   
Eames grins at her, but it's not his normal grin, there's an edge to it and he's breathing fast too. He brings some quiet into the dance, though. Over his shoulder, as she goes in for the _abrazo_ which, with Eames, feels like a mixture between a hug and a lascivious proposal, she sees Arthur, his dark eyes trained on her, his face betraying none of his earlier emotion. She can still feel the tension thrumming from him from halfway across the pista, though, and wonders if Eames feels it too.   
   
He steers her in an _ocho_ _adelante_ until he reaches a nearby table and the grin turns into a smirk as he lets go of her for a brief moment and reaches for a blood-red rose from one of the heavy marble vases. He sticks the stem between his teeth and pulls her close again. She throws her head back and laughs at the silliness of it, the archetypical Eames attempt at relieving the tension.   
   
The rest of the roses in the vase explode and turn into a flock of miniature, blood-red doves, fluttering up in the night dark sky, reminding her of Neruda, of the trembling wings.   
   
They go through a couple of figures together – _cruzada,_ _ocho_ _cortado,_ _el_ _giro_ – and she likes the way Eames moves, as though he was born for this.   
   
Arthur has retreated to the sideline of the _pista_ , sipping at a drink she knows he won't taste and which will have no effect on him. It's all a show for the mark. Arthur makes eye-contact with Eames and Ariadne feels a slight faltering in Eames' steps.   
   
Suddenly, unexpectedly, Eames spins her just as the music reaches a fever pitch and she moves toward Arthur. ' _Bastard_ ,' she thinks, and catches herself before Arthur has to catch her. He does, anyway, reaches for her with the same slim hands that can elegantly twirl a pen for minutes on end. She winds out of his too close embrace, but Eames is on her other side, so she can't move away, and now, both men are circling her like prey – Arthur's hand is on hers, open _abrazo_ which crushes her fingers in his hand, while Eames' hands are on her shoulders. Both are steering, pushing her, trading back and forth. She can feel them glaring at each other over her shoulder. This is no longer just a show for their mark.   
   
The tension grows thicker as the music picks up faster and they're off again, flying across the _pista_ so that the other dancers must make room for them, moving in ever tighter circles, ever more intimate movements. Her head is spinning and she gives herself to the music and the flow, lets it settle in her bones, and moves on instinct rather than on her vague training.   
   
The haze lifts when Eames dips her abruptly and lifts her leg _gancho_ so that it hooks around his hip. Her back is a perfect arch. Her skirt slides against her leg, leaves it bare to mid-thigh. Arthur is there to keep her head from hitting the ground. He catches her, his hands suddenly gentle. Arthur's free hand skims her bare leg, a whispered touch that ends where Eames' hand rests just under her thigh, supporting it. Everything and everyone around them has frozen.   
   
Ariadne's world is upside down but she doesn't struggle, not this time. Eames dips his head and he looks first at her, then at Arthur. He moves closer, his larger body crowds her, his lips near her chest and Ariadne bites back on a hiss. Her chest heaves from the exertion of the dance. Her mouth goes dry. Eames hitches her leg higher and her panties rub against his trousers. She idly wonders if he can feel how unprofessionally, perfectly wet she is. She wonders – again, of course, again, she's wondered since the first dream – what sex is like between dreamers. Eames bares his teeth and above her, Arthur sucks in air through his teeth as his fingertips bite into her scalp. She is frozen as Eames dips a final inch forward and places the rose between her breasts, as he ghosts his lips against the material of her dress, detouring to her skin. She can't take it and has to close her eyes. She hears a groan that isn't hers and opens her eyes again.   
   
She forgets all posture and loses her balance as she sees Arthur lean forward to kiss Eames over her arched torso. Arthur's hands catch her head. He doesn't stop kissing Eames; it's open-mouthed, wet and needy; she sees tongue. She twitches her hand against Eames' waist and in the tiny break from the kiss, Arthur looks down at her with a gaze that's wild and alien. He moves both hands against her scalp, and twists, fast and sharp.   
   
A sickening crunch is the last thing Ariadne hears before she wakes with a gasp.   
 

***

   
Eames stares at Ariadne's broken body on the floor, knows she's safe and awake outside the dream, but still his heart pounds against his ribcage. His lips burn. His brain refuses to catch up, lags slightly behind, caught in a loop of the previous seconds, from Arthur kissing him to Arthur breaking Ariadne's neck, to her falling, over and over again. He forcibly has to shake himself out of it. The rushing of blood in his ears is loud enough to drown out the sound of the sphinx's roar as it snatches up Ariadne's limp body, that body with its head in such an unnatural angle that Eames' stomach revolts. The sphinx throws the body – _Ariadne_ , damn it – over the edge of the dance floor against the pylon. Eames thinks he can hear bones break upon impact, despite the cotton candy feeling in his ears.   
   
He sees Saarela wide-eyed and horrified as Ariadne's body slams against the wall and then it just _melts_ into the fresco, skin and hair and clothes bleeding colour which leeches into the limestone wall to create a perfect copy of Ariadne in 2D. The body disintegrates, becomes sand, and when Eames looks at the fresco, the Ariadne there blinks at him, almost as shocked as he is.   
   
Eames is shocked enough, scared enough by this that he doesn't have time to think about what Arthur did or why, but as he turns away from the pylon to see Arthur smiling at it, he feels a shudder run through him. He's always thought he knows Arthur. Perfect, straight-laced, meticulous Arthur. But this... creature next to Eames now, this man shrouded in ruthless darkness, makes Eames doubt if any of his assumptions are correct. To his shock and dismay, this Arthur could and may well have moved in Eames' old world. And all the damned while he bloody well still _tastes_ Arthur. "Would you mind telling me what the – "   
   
"No," Arthur snaps. He looks behind Eames and his eyes widen slightly. "Duck!"   
   
Eames drops without thinking. Razor sharp claws lash through the air, missing his head only thanks to Arthur's warning and dream reflexes. The adrenaline rush of fear in response leaves Eames light-headed.   
   
All hell breaks loose around them, the ground shakes and shifts, and the murderous sphinx hisses like a huge, pissed-off cat. This time, Saarela isn't standing close to it though, he's cowering next to an olive tree and looks actively frightened, even panicked. The connection between him and the sphinx seems broken; the pet has turned against its owner. That symbolizes something in Saarela's real, waking world, but for now it just endangers everyone in the dream.   
   
Arthur runs toward Saarela; he narrowly escapes the sphinx's claws too. Eames wonders what the hell Arthur's playing at while at the same time he moves to cover Arthur, to somehow distract the creature.   
   
With Ariadne out of the game, the dream begins to collapse. The face-towers start to sway and crumble. The frescos on the pylons and the walls around them scream in mute panic and start to run across the walls as shock-waves ripple through the buildings and hair-line fissures crack into gaping openings.   
   
Arthur is shouting at Saarela. Eames can't make the words out over the cacophony. The sphinx stalks toward him, black as the night, giant wings unfolding, its eyes a malevolent red.   
   
He can't imagine how this is going to get worse, but Eames realises that he's about to find out.   
 

***

   
A part of him says that it was way too easy and that he should feel remorse over doing something so drastic. It's a quicksilver whisper, humming with the thrill of power, the stab of delight upon seeing Ariadne's eyes go blank. The part of him that's taken over, however, steps over Ariadne's body, ignores Eames' lingering taste in his mouth, and moves toward Saarela. He can't explain what happened with Eames and shuts down on his emotions ruthlessly. There's no time for this now and he has neither the luxury nor the inclination to worry about Eames.   
   
He noticed when the first couples started dancing that, upon the slightest mistake, the sphinx always went for the women first, tearing them to shreds much more slowly and with more delight than it did the men. The damn sphinx showed a much greater interest in Eames and Ariadne than they realised, dancing under the angels' spotlights. One mistake means failure, and they just can't afford to have this extraction fail like the first. Up above, Ariadne's life hangs at a thread. He'd rather have her out of the dream and pissed off at him and then deal with the extraction in record time than have her butcher it and risk her waking life that way.   
   
Eames can handle tricky situations. Ariadne is a rookie. A good rookie, but a rookie. It's that simple. If that's a rationalisation, well, rationalisation is a valid method of coping.   
   
With Ariadne out of the dream, there's no one to uphold the illusion.   
   
Arthur shoves through the crowd of dancers, impatient. He needs to get results and fast, before everything goes to hell. To the left side of the dance floor, the dream starts to collapse, buildings turn liquid, in Dali-esque rivulets of colour and matter, but on the right, the buildings remain strong as fortresses. The projections are in a state of shocked calm, but Arthur knows it won't stay that way.   
   
He shakes a feeling of unease. It was a necessary risk.   
   
Pushing past the last of the dancers, all he can see is Saarela, openly staring at him, and the sphinx, its avid eyes on Saarela, as it pads back to his side. No longer interested in the dancers, its attention has fixated on Saarela, and the gleam in its eyes that makes all the warning bells in Arthur's mind go off. It looks... hungry. Scheming. And it moves –   
   
Arthur doesn't wait another second. "Run!" he yells at Saarela.   
   
He conjures up a weapon and starts to shoot at the sphinx, anything to distract it. It works for a moment, just as long as it takes for the bullets to bounce off the beast's polished, ebony skin. Just as long as it takes for Arthur to realise that he really pissed it off now.   
   
To his right, the buildings start to collapse as well.   
   
It doesn't matter.   
   
What does matter, though, is that Saarela, once he has shaken his shocked stupor, is running directly into the hail of falling boulders.   
   
The sphinx rears up on its hind legs and its roar shakes the dance floor into pieces.   
   
This, Arthur thinks drily as a boulder crashes down so close to him that his shirt sleeve tears, will have to be quick.   
 

***

   
The weapons Eames conjures up to hold off the sphinx just make it more determined and ferocious. They're in trouble. Everything is crashing down without Ariadne.   
   
Saarela's down, a block of limestone pressing his entire lower body into the sand, and Arthur is at his side. Arthur's trying to coax the location of the key out of him, more forcefully now, more insistent, because time is running out for Saarela and the dream. Eames is afraid Saarela is too far gone, though.   
   
As Arthur's voice gets louder, the sphinx unfolds its wings again with a bone-chilling roar.   
   
It advances in half-flying leaps, each wing beat a clap of thunder, and the shots Eames fires bounce off of it as though its skin were made of bulletproof glass.   
   
It's one moment of inattentiveness. Just one split-second in which Eames looks to check on Arthur's progress with Saarela; he needs a clue to how much longer he'll have to hold the sphinx off – it's exactly once second too much.   
   
The beast pounces, knocking Eames over. Claws like scalpels slice his jacket and his skin, leaving behind hot strips of agony. It settles its weight on him to immobilise him and he hears as well as feels his ribs crack under the pressure. A groan of pain escapes him. Distantly, over the rushing blood in his ears, he hears Arthur yell again, but it's drowned in a wave of noise and pain as the creature turns Eames around. Sand creeps into the cuts on his back and flares like salt against his raw flesh. The cold, beautiful female face of the sphinx lowers close to his face in parody of a promised kiss, its eyes red but cold, such dispassionate fury in its gaze, as though Eames is just a nuisance, not worthy of its time, something to be killed merely because he's there, in the way.   
   
It sniffs at him, nostrils flared, bizarrely like an animal with human features. Its breath is hot and moist and strangely odourless where Eames would have expected the stench of hell; it makes sweat break out all over his face and body, sweat that is both from heat and fear.   
   
He cranes his neck to see Arthur and catches just a glimpse. Arthur's still talking to Saarela, still kneeling next to where Saarela is crushed. Just a little longer, Eames tells himself. Arthur just needs a little more time.   
   
The sphinx catches his look and starts to move; its claws dig into Eames' arms. He starts to talk without thinking. "Hey, sweetheart, what's the hurry?"   
   
The red gaze snaps back to him.   
   
"We're not having a good enough time here? Don't you feel like making one man happy before you try your monstrous charm on someone else?"   
   
Eames breathlessly talks a mile a minute, flirtations, insults, anything to distract. The claws dig deeper into his skin, break flesh and bone until his voice grows rough and choked and yet he keeps talking, tries to give Arthur every last second he needs.   
   
It's not pleasant, no, but it _is_ a dream and he's dealt with worse things before. After all, it can't get worse than the damn sauna.   
   
The sphinx bares its teeth just then, making Eames think that he likely just jinxed himself.   
   
The giant wings flap and unfold fully, while more blocks of stone come crashing down around them, raining from the sky in the endless ill-logic of the failing dream.   
   
Saarela gives a pained cry and the sphinx freezes once more, its claws deep in Eames' side, slicing through his liver and spleen, before it breaks into motion, lifts Eames up and tosses him aside, against the wall where his bones shatter on impact, where he lands on the ground like a broken ragdoll. He can't feel his legs and his right arm any longer; his spine is most likely broken.   
   
His pulse rushes in his ears and blood seeps into his eyes from a cut above his left brow. He tries to sit up and fails, can't even turn his head. Something in his chest wheezes and makes a weird gurgling noise as he tries to draw breath. Collapsed lung. He really did fucking jinx himself.   
   
Arthur's alone in this now.   
   
There's still time on the clock, even if Eames isn't sure just how much. From where he's standing – lying, really, lying and choking on his own blood – it's too much. More than enough time for the creature to kill Arthur and come back to Eames as dessert.   
   
Eames isn't sure whether to hope he'll asphyxiate first.  
  


	8. Aquarium Café

When Arthur wakes and finds the power to open his eyes against the lure of the sedative, he finds Ariadne gone. Her line from the PASIV dangles on the floor. His gun is missing.  
   
His head aches and nausea churns in his stomach when he remembers the dream and fights down the physical reaction that's still skittering underneath his skin like contained lightning. If he allows himself, he can still feel the snap of Ariadne's neck between his hands, feel the teeth and claws of the sphinx tearing into his flesh and ripping him apart before he could get Saarela to talk. Bile climbs up inside his throat. He rises from the uncomfortable seat and tears off the white doctor's coat, then gives Eames' seat a well-placed and unnecessarily forceful kick that has the biohazard container next to him rattling.  
   
"Easy with the goods, darling," Eames drawls as he resurfaces.  
   
Arthur doesn't look at him, _can't_ ; how can he? How does he explain that playing this game and kicking Ariadne out of the dream was necessary, that it was to protect her and save the extraction? How the hell did a simple mission take such a sharp turn into something so messed up? Fuck the subconscious. Just fuck it. He runs a hand through his hair, clenches his teeth, and wills some of the tension to drain from his body. His brain is on overload, all synapses firing. He just needs a few seconds to get his game-face back. Just a few seconds...  
   
A seat slides against the ambulance's wall with a snap and Arthur flinches even as he whirls toward the sound. It scares him shitless that he can't say how much time has passed.  
   
"Where's Ariadne?" Eames asks.  
   
"Gone," Arthur answers, slamming his walls into place. He feels naked without his gun.  
   
"Your grasp on the obvious is – "  
   
"Not now, Eames," Arthur snarls. "Not fucking now."  
   
Next to them, Saarela begins to move and they both know that they only have seconds to get their head back in the game.  
   
In a series of fluid movements, Eames removes and rolls up the lines, closes the PASIV case and hides it in the biohazard drawer just before their mark opens his eyes, bleary and confused.  
   
"Well, hello back," Eames says with an amicable smile and in perfect Finnish, fully back in the role of calm paramedic. Arthur has always envied him the ability to pick up languages quickly and accent-free.  
   
Saarela looks around. "What happened?"  
   
"A little too much to drink, my friend," Eames answers with a wink as he helps Saarela to sit up. "And a little too much tango. It happens to the best of us."  
   
Saarela's hair stands on end, making his painfully nerdy appearance even worse. "I have given you an infusion that will help with the dizziness and the dehydration," Arthur states, falling back into his role as well. "You should feel a lot better now." His Finnish is accented but good enough to get through as an immigrant doctor. It works.  
   
Saarela relaxes, blushes. "Thank you. I don't know what – "  
   
"All the pretty ladies can make a man's head swim, hm?" Eames smirk is suggestive but not lewd – the kind of smile a paramedic _would_ give a sorry nerd and Arthur is once again struck by how good of an actor Eames is. "How about you get out there and see if you can find yourself someone who doesn't spin your head?" He helps Saarela off the gurney and Arthur moves to open the ambulance van's door.  
   
He doesn't get that far.  
   
The door flies open with a bang, music floats inside and Arthur looks into the muzzle of a gun. _His_ gun. Arthur freezes, his gaze zeroes in on the Glock, then, like a slow focus puller, to the face behind the gun.  
   
Ariadne.  
   
"Everyone, stay where you are," she warns.  
   
The _hell_?  
   
Behind him, Arthur hears Eames move.  
   
"I said don't move!" Ariadne shouts now. Her hand twitches, the gun moves from Arthur to Eames.  
   
Arthur tries to catch her eyes but she won't let him; there's ice around her thick enough to freeze a continent.  
   
"You," she says to Saarela.  
   
Arthur whips around to Saarela and sees him shake like a leaf, pale, still under the influence of the sedative.  
   
"Get over here," Ariadne continues.  
   
Arthur turns back to her and the gun is back on him. "I said. Don't. Move." Her voice is low, commanding.  
   
What the hell is she playing at?  
   
"What is going on here?" Saarela asks Arthur's question, his voice wobbly. He moves about an inch, then stops, looking from Arthur to Eames to Ariadne.  
   
Ariadne, who stands in front of the ambulance like an avenging angel, lit from behind, her hair haloed by the midnight sun, her outline sharp, has the gall to actually say: "If you want to live, you'll come with me right now."  
   
" _What_?"  
   
"You have about ten more seconds until it's too late. Move now or I'm gone without you."  
   
Arthur twitches and this time, Ariadne moves and the gun is against Arthur's forehead. "I didn't mean you," she says, toneless. "I don't want to kill you, but I will if I have to."  
   
Arthur meets her eyes and for one moment, one horrible, stomach-dropping moment, he believes her; realises that all this time he's been busy being suspicious of Eames, he never once considered it might be her double-crossing him. Them.  
   
Next to him, Saarela scrambles out of the ambulance. Ariadne removes the gun from Arthur's forehead, reaches for Saarela's upper arm. "Come on."  
   
"You," she turns to Eames. "Give me the keys."  
   
A clink-tinkle noise and Ariadne catches the keys Eames throws her. "Sit down on the floor next to the gurney," she commands. "Backs to each other. Hands on your heads."  
   
Arthur complies with stiff legs and feels Eames do the same. Eames' back is broad, tense warmth against his own spine.  
   
"Very nice." Ariadne gives them a smile that makes Arthur's skin crawl. "Now you be good and stay here until your employers find you."  
   
The door to the ambulance van is slammed shut from the outside. Arthur hears the lock turn.  
   
"Interesting," is Eames' only comment after the rapid clicking noise of Ariadne's heels has disappeared. His hands slide off his head.  
   
Arthur sits still for a moment with his eyes clenched shut, feels a tide inside of him rise and rise, his muscles tense enough to snap until he can't take it anymore, until he has to do something, anything to stop himself from flying completely off the handle – He kicks both feet against the gurney with a shout.  
   
"She used my own fucking gun against me!"  
 

***

   
Ariadne runs and pulls Saarela behind her; he's stumbling more than running, panting and dragging his feet. They blend into a group of dancers, bolt past shops and blaring tango music from giant speakers and, eventually, after they've rounded several corners and are closer to one of the cafés Ariadne knows Saarela frequents, he digs his heels in.  
   
"Stop," he says and does just that. "I'm not going one more step until you explain."  
   
Ariadne is hit by how deep his voice is, incongruous to his lanky body. She whirls quickly and pulls him to sit on a bench, slinging her arm around him to give the impression of a couple on a night out. She makes sure he feels the gun when she leans closer. God, the kid is skinny. Ariadne feels his tremors right down to his bones.  
   
She licks her lips and moves in closer so she only needs to speak low. "You're in danger."  
   
"I think I gathered that," he retorts in a surprising show of alert sarcasm. "Why?"  
   
"Your program. If you want to live, we'll need it. Now." The running commentary in her head tells her that she sounds like Sarah Connor. She rolls her shoulders a little. There are worse female figures to draw inspiration from.  
   
Ariadne feels him stiffen next to her. "No. There are measures in place – "  
   
"Do you know who those people in the ambulance were?" That's great, Ariadne thinks, she's pulling a Mr. Charles in real life here. She only hopes it'll work.  
   
Saarela shakes his head. "Paramedics."  
   
"Not even close. Think hired extractors."  
   
He looks away but she reaches for his chin, forces him to look at her. "Think, Ari." She uses his first name on purpose, tries to build trust. "Do you remember having strange dreams lately? Fever dreams, dreams that seemed out of the ordinary?"  
   
"They," he starts, "they gave me pills, that – "  
   
"Swapped for a placebo," Ariadne cuts in. "Those two were trying to steal the information from your subconscious when I moved in." He still shakes his head but she stares him into submission. "They were inside your dream. Inside your _head_."  
   
She gives him a few seconds to let this sink in. "Did you give them anything?"  
   
"How the hell would I know – "  
   
"Think!" she urges, impatient. "This isn't just fun and games anymore, not just some theoretical possibility. They were in your _head_." Ariadne enunciates the next question very clearly. "Did they get anything?"  
   
Saarela screws his eyes shut, frowns in deep thought. She sees him fight against the sedative still in his veins, making him woozy. Eventually, he shakes his head. "I don't think so." He runs a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. "At least I hope not."  
   
Ariadne shifts the gun where it digs into her hip, making sure he sees it. "We need to move it in case they got something after all." She rises, motions for him to follow. "Let's go."  
   
He stays seated, however, looks up at her with a frown that shows he's a little more alert. "Why should I trust you? Yes, you saved me from those extractors, but I don't even know your name."  
   
Ariadne blurts the first name she can think of. "Martha," she says. "Martha Jones."  
   
"Just like a _Dr. Who_ character." He raises an eyebrow. "Very likely."  
   
 _Clever, Mata Hari_ , her inner commentary provides helpfully, _real clever_. She needs to bullshit something quickly and decides in favour of an attack. "Do you want to play the name-game or do you want to be safe?"  
   
He fixes her with a calculating stare for a few seconds, then rises. "Fine." He adds, " _Martha._ "  
   
Her phone rings, then, the vibration making her flinch. She pulls it out of her pocket and drops it in the nearest trash can. She doesn't need instructions from Arthur on this one. "Let's go. They're onto us."  
 

***

   
They enter the small café off the main town square just like regular people. Ariadne is antsy, she doesn't know why he chose exactly this one, can't tell how much the sedative is still affecting him and, most of all, if he'll start to remember her being in his dream as well. Looking back, it is probably a good thing Arthur killed her, it provides her with a cover.  
   
Saarela isn't stupid, though, he may realise that she turned up in his dream even though he's never seen her before then she has to be with the rest of the extraction team. She gives him a sideways glance as he orders two kahvi and is met with a smile from the barista.  
   
He hands her a cup and motions for her to sit in a small booth overlooking the entrance to the café and the windows, but secluded enough so they can't be seen when somebody looks inside. "Tell me why I should give you the program," Saarela says. "How do you even know about it?"  
   
Once again, she says the first thing that pops into her head, hoping it'll be the right thing to say. "The internet."  
   
Saarela narrows his eyes. "You've been playing?"  
   
Gaming, Ariadne thinks. Probably RPG. "Since I was a kid."  
   
His eyes light up a little. "No one was supposed to find the cache unless I didn't check in. I didn't think anyone would crack that clue unless I gave more – "  
   
"Never underestimate gamers," Ariadne says before he can think about it too much.  
   
"How did you – "  
   
"I work for the CIA," Ariadne says, desperately drawing on all her knowledge of spy-novels and TV shows to come up with a convincing story that will fit Saarela's world view. "They recruited me after I hacked one of their databases when I was fifteen."  
   
Saarela looks surprised. "You, too?"  
   
She flashes him a smile, holds out her hand. "Welcome to the club of the promoted juvenile delinquents."  
   
Saarela grasps her hand and squeezes it, a warm, dry handshake. "I never thought... " He trails off and his facial expression changes from wariness to interest. He looks as though he found a kindred spirit.  
   
"They like to make sure we don't meet," Ariadne says, leaning closer conspiratorially. "Think of what we could do if we all teamed up." A raised eyebrow and a smile are her reward. "They hate the internet." She takes a sip of the coffee and winks at him. "Leakier than a sieve."  
   
"We won't have much time. They'll have noticed something happened to me."  
   
Meaning he has someone watching over him. Damn it. She needs to speed things up. "So give me the program."  
   
He leans back, crosses his arms over his chest. His face looks shuttered suddenly. "How do I know you're not one of them?"  
   
Ariadne shrugs. "You don't. But I _did_ just save you."  
   
His knuckles are white where his hands clench around his cup. "I never should have written it." He tries to take a sip, but his hands start to shake, so he sets the cup down on the saucer with the high clank of cheap porcelain. "It was just a thought experiment, never meant to be used." Saarela shakes his head, reminiscing. A pained, apologetic expression flashes over his face. "I think I was shocked more than anyone when it crashed Greece's economy."  
   
Ariadne's mind whirls. What the hell is he referring to? "What does it do, exactly?" she asks, still in character, because knowing that he's hiding some kind of program doesn't mean she knows the specifics. He mentioned a cache earlier, so she could’ve just followed the lead to a geocache, hidden somewhere in an online RPG. At least she hopes that that's close enough to what he really is referring to.  
   
"Global economic manipulation. Just a few choice commands and you can turn the richest country in the world into a third-world economy over night. It was just an experiment. I never thought it would get out of control."  
   
Slowly, slowly, understanding begins to dawn. The enormity of it hits her like a ton of bricks. "So that's why – "  
   
"Why I've been hiding the only copy of the decryption key outside of my head at another place every other day. Why I'm keeping it hidden so no one can use it. Can you imagine the danger of a program like this in the wrong hands?"  
   
Ariadne feels the colour drain from her cheeks. "Damn."  
   
"Exactly. I never imagined anyone using it until the spooks showed up, wanting to know how to crack the encryption." He runs a hand over suddenly tired eyes. "They tried to get it from me until my government put its foot down."  
   
"So, do they – "  
   
"I'm not giving it to them, either," Saarela is quick to point out. He doesn't know that that's not the question she meant to ask. She desperately needs to know if he has people following him night and day, keeping an eye out for him. She needs to know how much time she has left before all hell breaks loose around her. "There's not a single government, no matter how well-meaning, I'm giving access to something this big. I've set up a contingency plan to make it public should something happen to me. As long as I don't give the information to somebody else or get kidnapped, they leave me alone because they fear the consequences. That's how you found me."  
   
Ariadne nods, her mind racing. The more she knows, the less she thinks he's just going to give her the program, or its decryption key or whatever the hell else it is he's hiding to make sure no one can activate his program. "They're onto you," she says, repeating her earlier words.  
   
"That's not possible."  
   
"No?" she echoes. "Then tell me, how did I find you?"  
   
"You're different. You're a gamer."  
   
"Today's spooks aren't fools, Ari," she admonishes. "You've been good at avoiding them so far, but they're coming closer. You need to find a new strategy. You need it tonight."  
   
"And that's where you come in. So very conveniently."  
   
"Yes."  
   
"And you want me to hand you the program so you can hide it."  
   
"Yes."  
   
He leans forward and she can tell that he has shaken all that was left of the sedative still in his system. "How do I know you're not working for them?" he asks again.  
   
Ariadne leans forward as well. "You still don't."  
   
Saarela looks to the window, suddenly, and flinches. Ariadne follows his gaze and sees Arthur passing the café, peering inside. She reaches for Saarela's wrist. "You don't have a choice. It's either me or them." When he tries to pull back, she clamps her hand around his wrist tighter. "Their extraction attempt failed. These are modern mercenaries, Ari. They won't stop until they have what they want and they take no prisoners. They don't care if lives are lost." She lets go of him, enforces eye-contact. Remembering what Arthur did to her in the dream makes it easy to look sincere. "Is this really something you want to die for?" She remembers the picture in his living room, decides to up the pressure some more. "Is it something you want your family to die for?"  
   
Outside, Arthur walks past the café and out of sight. Saarela doesn't see it. He stares at her, all colour drained from his face. Eventually, his shoulders slump; he takes a deep breath. "Okay," he says after a small eternity and pushes his chair back. "I'll get it."  
   
"I'm coming with you," she says, afraid that he'll try to trick her.  
   
"What, to the men's restroom?" A smirk flits over his features. "It's not that kind of establishment." He rummages in his jeans-pocket and produces a small screwdriver.  
   
Ariadne raises her eyebrow, remembers his collection of _Dr. Who_ tie-in novels. "Don't tell me it's Sonic."  
   
"Unable to open a deadlock seal made of wood, but quite handy when opening electrical outlets." He winks at her and leaves in the direction of the restrooms and Ariadne feels a downright painful wave of fondness for Saarela wash over her. She hates what she's about to do, but hopes that it'll be better for him in the end. He'll be free of this constant Damocles' sword hanging over him. Maybe Arthur will have a way of wiping part of Saarela's memory so none of the spooks will be able to force the information out of him.  
   
She tells herself it's for the best.  
   
It is.  
   
It will be.  
   
She's almost sure of it.  
 

***

   
Hotwiring the ambulance so they can disengage the locks without the key isn't difficult. They're out of the van in a matter of seconds. Eames goes about hiding it and securing the PASIV while Arthur, now carrying Eames' gun, follows Ariadne on foot – to wherever the hell it is she went with Saarela.  
   
He's still reeling, torn apart by wondering whether she is working with or against them. It's like a two-front war now, he can no longer be sure either of them is still working with him. Arthur calls her, but she doesn't pick up. Of course she doesn't. He tracks the GPS in her phone for a couple hundred metres, has to weave through dancers and tourists and tries very hard not to give into the urge of elbowing every single one who stands in his way.  
   
He tracks the signal to a bench on the main town square but she's nowhere in sight. Instead, when he calls her again, he hears the familiar ringtone emerge from a trash can right next to the bench. Arthur curses under his breath as he retrieves it to avoid traces. Just when did she become so crafty? It should fill him with a certain pride that she's learned this much this quickly, but instead, it fills him with apprehension, with worry over whether she really learned fast or if she knew all along. The fact that she threw away the phone instead of destroying it suggests the former, but he can't be sure.  
   
His phone rings and he flinches. "Have you found her?" Eames asks when Arthur picks up.  
   
"No," Arthur answers. "She ditched her phone."  
   
Eames huffs an amused, almost proud laugh. "Smart little minx." He doesn't seem concerned at all, as though Ariadne kidnapping Saarela and threatening them with a gun was just daily routine. Maybe it is. Maybe it fucking is. Maybe they _are_ working together against him. God _damn it_.  
   
"Where are you?" Arthur snaps.  
   
"Ensuring our getaway. Make sure you find our Mata Hari and meet me on the parking lot off Kalevankatu in ten minutes."  
   
Arthur's been searching for her for fifteen minutes since Eames' call, getting more and more worked up when the rapid clicking of familiar heels makes him look behind him. Ariadne walks toward him, a bright smile on her face. "Darling!" she greets in cheerful French. "There you are! I thought I'd lost you." She takes his hand, takes him for a spin in between the dancers.  
   
The hell. _The hell?_  
   
She moves in for a closer dance embrace that he fights at first but the bite of her fingernails to his neck is an eloquent enough command. "What the hell are you doing?"  
   
"I've got it," she whispers, urgent and worryingly excited, then spins away from him through a gap between a group of dancers, leaving Arthur to wonder exactly what she means.  
   
In a shop that's still open, he glimpses her looking at books. She opens the tight bun she kept her hair in and runs her hands through it vigorously. It changes her appearance, but not enough to make her indistinguishable. It's stuff learned from spy novels, not experience. It's sloppy enough to make his concern a little less keen. Or it could just be well-played in order to confuse him.  
   
He doesn't see anyone following her so he gives into the urge to grab her arm and pull her into the open door of a tango club where the music will drown out their conversation to others even when they're yelling at each other. "You've got what?" he queries. "What the hell have you done?"  
   
"Apparently succeeding at what you haven't managed in two attempts," she answers, her smile slipping, a cold sneer in her voice.  
   
He doesn't like what she's implying. Doesn't like it at all. "What do you – "  
   
"I've got the secret, Arthur. Not just the location. I have it right here." She opens her palm and produces a metal micro-flashdrive. "It's a decryption key for a computer program." She relates, in very few words, clipped by excitement, how and where she got it, how she fooled Saarela into literally handing it over. Excitement makes her words lilt and a smug smile spreads over her face.  
   
The ground opens up beneath Arthur's feet; for a moment it feels as though the room sways. "You stupid little _idiot._ " He runs a hand that's shaking now over his face. At least he's sure now that she's not some kind of bizarre double-agent. Just someone with much too much bravery and an unhealthy lack of respect. He'd be impressed if the situation were different. But it's not. As long as they didn't know what it was they were looking for, they were harmless. Now that they not only know but also have what the spooks want... She may have just handed the bullets to their execution squad. "Clandestine. Do you know the meaning of clandestine?" He lets his fingers bite into her upper arms and ignores the signs of it hurting her. "It means that we can't be seen, that we don't pull any attention toward us."  
   
"Sometimes you have to take risks."  
   
"This?" His mind's eye presents her to him in a pool of blood, the back of her skull a gaping hole. "This is the kind of risk you're willing to take?" he asks, losing his calm and shaking her. "You have no idea what you've dabbled in!"  
   
"Then why don't you finally tell me?" she retorts and shrugs his hands off, her muscles tense enough to snap. "We've been dancing around this for long enough, haven't we? It seems like the perfect opportunity for a lengthy chat." Her sarcasm is like a hot knife. A fresh flood of people enters the club; they have to step aside to let them through. When they face each other again, Ariadne looks a little more calm. "We've got results," she says in an attempt at a ceasefire. "How about we stop arguing and get out of here?"  
   
Arthur shakes his head, incapable of letting go of his anger. "This isn't over."  
   
Her face darkens. "It sure as hell isn't," she spits back, turns on her heel and stalks out of the club.  
   
People weave around them, too many, too big a crowd. Arthur can't make out any pursuers but he has a hard time believing there will be none. "Have you been followed?" he asks as he catches up with her. She walks with short but furious steps that manage to cover a lot of ground. "Ariadne." She doesn't stop, so he tries again. "Have you – "  
   
"Just tell me who you're referring to!" she snaps over her shoulder and moves faster, as though trying to escape him.  
   
Arthur moves fast, takes her arm again, claws his finger into her upper arm with a lot more force than he'd normally allow and stops her. "Have you been followed?" he repeats, slow and toneless.  
   
"By whom?" she's shouting now, attracting the attention of passer-bys and dancers.  
   
He notices people staring at them; near the door of the club they just left, a group of men gestures toward Ariadne before they stalk in their direction. Arthur shakes his head, pulls her along. "Doesn't matter anymore. We need to spread it out. Back it up. Now."  
   
"What?" She digs her heels in. "I'm not moving another inch unless you tell me what exactly is happening here."  
   
Arthur spins her for just long enough that she can see the spooks, see that they've drawn guns and are moving into the café Ariadne said she left Saarela at. "You opened Pandora's box."  
   
He pulls her into another group of dancers, past speakers that blare tango music loud enough to make the ground vibrate. "Keep moving," he tells her. "Don't stop." He reaches for his phone and calls Eames.  
   
"Found her?"  
   
"Yes."  
   
"Good, now – "  
   
"I need the location of the closest internet café to my position. Now."  
   
Eames doesn't ask any questions, simply provides him with a direction.  
   
"Meet us there in ten minutes."  
   
There is no time for niceties when they enter the small internet café. The owner looks a little surprised when Arthur cuts his introductory speech short. It's Ariadne who diffuses the tension by saying: "He got a text message saying his stocks dropped 80 per cent before his iPhone lost juice. He's a little stressed." From the corner of his eye, Arthur sees the owner nod and bite back on a grin that clearly has Schadenfreude written all over it.  
   
They dash to the computer that is hidden away from the unfortunately large window and Arthur curses under his breath when the login takes forever. He tells Ariadne to watch the window and alert him as soon as anybody even so much as looks at them. The other patrons are busy skyping with relatives overseas, staying in touch and being oblivious to what's going on around them. One of them stares into the large aquarium spanning the wall to Arthur's far right, headphones on, lost in thought or the rush of a recent bong.  
   
Once the login process is finished, the connection is blessedly fast. Arthur inserts the flashdrive, finds the program. SFNX, Saarela called it. Flashing back to the dream, the reason for the sphinx' key part in it finally becomes clear to Arthur. His fingers fly over the keyboard, accessing hidden storage sites, cloud and e-mail accounts until he has ten tabs open, the program uploading smoothly to each of them. Only then does he allow himself to relax slightly and marvel how Saarela managed to put so much destructive power into a program file that's not even four hundred eighty megabytes in size.  
   
Arthur checks his watch while keeping an eye on the upload's progress bar. Eames will be here in less than three minutes.  
   
Next to him, Ariadne is tense, her leg bouncing up and down as she, too, stares at the progress bar. She gets up to look at the other people in the café, twirls a strand of hair around the index finger of her left hand while her other searches for something in her bag, all fast, nervous moves that distract Arthur for the moment it takes to look up at her. Long enough to miss a man stepping into the open door.  
   
"Get down!" Arthur snaps at Ariadne and tries to push her out of the line of sight, but by then, it's already too late. The man's eyes flash recognition, he turns, yells something.  
   
"Get _down_ ," Arthur says again, and this time pulls hard enough to send Ariadne crashing to her knees with a pained grunt.  
   
More people file into the café, three, four, dressed in casual clothing but from the way they move they're all unmistakeably combat-trained, all with their guns drawn. Arthur ducks behind the computer screen, curses, waits with bated breath as the progress bar in the one open tab he can see creeps from 95 to 96 per cent. It's slowing down. Why the hell is it slowing down? He can clearly see the guy in front of him streaming a video on YouTube just fine.  
   
96.5.  
   
This is taking too long. Way too long to be an odd coincidence.  
   
"Try to crawl under the tables and get to the bathroom, there's an emergency exit there," Arthur whispers, urgent. "Move."  
   
97 per cent. In the other tabs, one by one, error messages appear. It's just this one that's still active.  
   
Damn it. So they do have hackers watching uploads from Finnish IP addresses. He should have known this was going to happen.  
   
98 per cent. Please, please, just this one. They still have the flashdrive, but they need the program backed up online, they need the leverage.  
   
Ariadne has just reached the next empty computer desk when one of the men spots her and fires a first round. The LCD screen bursts with a small flame and a sharp stench of burnt plastic. The people around them duck, scream. Arthur sees Ariadne cover her head with her hands as the debris rains down on her.  
   
99 per cent. The progress bar flickers. _Your upload has_ _–_  
   
 _Completed_ , Arthur thinks, _completed, completed, say completed_ –  
   
All the lights go out. The computer shuts down with a hiss-whirr noise and the only light left in the café is the burning LCD. Arthur slaps his palm against the desk and bites his tongue to not shout a string of expletives.  
   
He removes the flashdrive and moves to Ariadne's side in a crouched run.  
   
More shots ring out. The café is filled with thick, biting smoke and the painful screeching of the fire-alarm.  
   
"Do they know _you've_ got the program?" he asks over the rain of glass and frightened screams in the internet café.  
   
A shot ricochets off the wall behind them, sends dust raining on them.  
   
"I'd say there's a good chance they know _we_ have it, wouldn't you?" Her voice is clipped, her lips pressed in a tight white line, she's trying to push down panic.  
   
The flashdrive is a hindrance right now, he needs his hands free to get them out of this mess, so Arthur slaps it into her palm. "Don't lose it."  
   
She nods, tight-lipped and determined, and her hand clenches around the small flashdrive that is now the key to their survival and the reason they're under attack all at once. They inch toward the restrooms, with Arthur returning fire. Eames' gun is a reassuring weight in his hand, but it does nothing to calm the way his thoughts are tripping over the various exit strategies.  
   
"Look out!" Ariadne's shout is shrill. The glass of the aquarium next to them shatters with a deafening crack and on pure instinct, Arthur pulls her away from the sudden flood. Bright, colourful fish flap on the ground, twitching amidst puddles of water that soak into the carpet.  
   
"Damn it." Ariadne pulls the dripping wet skirt of her dress up and out of the puddle.  
   
Arthur glares at the fish, then dials one-handed while he fires another round. His ears ring, Ariadne flinches with each new shot, her jaw clenched so tight it's painful just to look at. Her hand goes to her bag again. Something shatters. In the far distance, he thinks he already hears sirens. It takes Eames forever to pick up his phone. "Eames!" he shouts over the answering fire. "Get Ariadne out of here."  
   
"Where – "  
   
"Just follow the fucking gunfire, okay?"  
   
A round of shots rings close to him, too damn close, and Arthur whirls, panicked that this one moment of split attention was enough for the spooks to get to Ariadne, but instead he sees her on one knee, a secure stance, his Glock held steady in both hands. One of the spooks is down, holding his arm. He can't help the eyebrow going up, despite the danger they're in.  
   
They shoot in tandem now, holding back their attackers until they're out of bullets, long enough to make it to the restroom and the emergency exit. The door opens into a small, stuffy alley filled with trash cans and plastic bags. Arthur barricades the door from the outside and urges Ariadne to run ahead of him, make it to the end of the alley to get out of the one-way street.  
   
She has barely reached the end of the alley when she trips. Her ankle twists at an odd angle and she goes down with a muted sound of pain, clutching her foot.  
   
Of course it couldn't have been that easy. Of course the moment Ariadne goes down is the moment a man rounds the corner and aims his gun at her. Arthur's out of bullets and not close enough to stop him so he does the only thing he can think of and hollers Russian insults at the top of his lungs, just to give her that second's chance.  
   
The man's gaze snaps to Arthur and Ariadne uses the opening, reaches for a broken bottle lying next to her and rams the shardy remains into the man's calf. He howls, clutching his leg, his gun clattering to the floor. Arthur's close enough to kick it away and haul Ariadne to her feet, away, just away from here.  
   
When a scratched silver Saab screeches to a halt in front of them, Arthur's first instinct is to draw his gun, no matter how useless it is, but the car's door flies open and reveals a grim-faced Eames. "Can't leave you alone for five minutes," he says as he throws Arthur a clip. To Ariadne he snarls a terse, "Get in."  
   
The spooks have managed to open the door by now and Arthur fires a round to hold them back while Ariadne slides into the back-seat. Why the hell had he chosen a two-door car again? It's taking too long, all of it. If their pursuers get a good look at their car, they're made.  
   
Ariadne finally makes it and Arthur throws himself into the passenger seat. He doesn't even have time to slam the door shut before Eames puts the reverse gear in and gives the motor a minor heart attack by going full speed out of the alley. Arthur suspects he left some shoe leather behind on the pavement as he pulls his legs inside and the passenger door shut.  
   
Arthur can't tell if the spooks saw the car or got a look at the license plate, and it's more to calm his own nerves than to really egg Eames on that he snaps, "Drive, drive, drive."  
   
Eames screeches around a corner and barely misses a couple of dancers crossing the street. Rude hand gestures follow them. "I'm trying," Eames replies, sounding disgusted.  
   
Arthur looks into the side mirror. Are they being followed? He can't say. "Try harder."  
   
They reach a more open, less crowded street and Eames puts the pedal to the metal. The car moves slowly, sluggish, and barely picks up speed. "Sodding piece of crap!" Eames slaps a hand against the stirring wheel and pushes his foot even harder against the accelerator. "You couldn't have chosen something with a decent engine? How the hell are we supposed to outrun anyone in this crate?"  
   
"I didn't buy the car expecting to be in a car chase," Arthur snaps. In the backseat, from the corner of his eye, he sees Ariadne flinch and run a nervous hand over the now leather-encased PASIV case.  
   
"What happened to the Boy Scouts' motto?" Eames snaps back. The car has finally picked up speed, the needle goes from 80 to 90 kilometres per hour.  
   
"Fuck you." Arthur looks behind them again, can't make out anyone following them. There is, however, a police car parked in a side street. "And keep it to the god damn speed limit, the last thing we need is to be pulled over and handed to the spooks with a nice red bow."  
   
Eames gives him the finger but slows the car.  
   
The police car pulls out of the side street and into the lane behind them.  
   
"Shit," Arthur hisses. "Thank you so much, Eames."  
   
Eames' lips thin as he looks into the rear-view mirror.  
   
Arthur whips his head around toward Ariadne. "Seatbelt." No need to give the police a reason to stop them for longer than necessary. A speeding ticket should be a quick thing. They'll have to change the damn car, however, in case the police report it, logs them onto some kind of list. What's worse is that the police will see them, will get a good look at all three of them. Arthur knows how damn good a cop's, especially a patrol car cop’s, memory can be.  
   
The police car closes in on them, obviously interested, the lights already going on when, in their first bit of good luck in the entire night, a car appears from a side street, and swerves onto the lane behind them. There's a distinct sound of tires screeching, metal screaming and denting, and glass shattering. Arthur chances a quick look in the rearview mirror and sees that the car that came from the side street has hit another car in the lane behind them and the patrol car slows to a stop and turns around. God bless that drunk, Arthur thinks half hysterically.  
   
Beside him, Eames exhales audibly. Arthur tries to unclench his hands.  
   
"As soon as they're out of sight, we'll ditch the car," Arthur announces, gaze still fixed on the patrol car that's disappearing in the rearview mirror.  
   
Ariadne leans forward from the backseat. "Why? What's wrong with this one?"  
   
"You mean besides the engine?" Eames asks and Arthur has the irrational urge to punch him before Eames continues, "About everything plus the fact that they may have noticed us."  
   
Arthur unclenches his hand.  
   
"They can't place us, though, they didn't stop us," she reasons.  
   
"No, but they saw us driving too fast and may have run the license plate."  
   
"Oh."  
   
Yeah, _oh_. For another short, irrational moment, Arthur hopes that she'll shut up for the next few moments because he's still running on adrenaline and the fact that her going off the script brought this whole mess upon them isn't endearing her much to him right now.  
   
"There." Eames veers smoothly into a side-street with a small parking lot. There are few houses around; less possible witnesses, good. They slow to a stop and Eames parks the car. He leans over to Arthur after a minute, points out a black VW. Mid-sized, insuspicious, a recent model but not too new. "That one?" Eames asks.  
   
Arthur nods. "Looks good." He reaches for the bag Ariadne hands him, gets out the spray bottle with rubbing alcohol and the paper towels. The small but thoughtful gesture makes him realise that she's a lot less careless than he thought and calms his grudge a little. "I'll take care of this. Ariadne," he turns to her, "get the PASIV from the trunk and go with Eames."  
   
She doesn't argue and limps out of the car. More of Arthur's anger dissipates as he watches her.  
   
He works quickly, wipes down the plastic surfaces of the car to get rid of all their fingerprints, then repeats the same procedure on the outside of the doors and the trunk.  
   
By the time he's finished, he hears the smooth hum of another car being started. Eames shows up not five seconds later and rolls the hotwired VW to a stop next to Arthur, shielding him from view. Arthur crouches in front of a blue Nissan, removes the license plates, then swaps them with the VW's. Better done in a different parking lot, but needs must when the devil drives.  
   
Once the plates are swapped out, Arthur gets in the car, his fingers dirty and his heart beating only slightly less erratically than before. A quick check tells him that no one's seen them.  
   
At least they've got the program and with it, a chance to get the client off their backs. They need to wrap up this damn mess and get out of Finland.  
   
Arthur takes a deep breath. He allows himself a quick look at Eames, then at Ariadne. They might just make it. If their luck holds.  
 

***

   
Ariadne is still humming along to the song on the radio when Eames pulls into the dirt road leading to the factory and kills the engine. His knuckles return to their regular colour and it's only now that Arthur realises just how tense Eames has been the entire time. With good reason. Arthur knows it isn't over. They'll have to lie low a couple of days, wait until the spooks have stopped looking for them in the area, get out of Seinäjoki and out of Finland to disseminate the progr –  
   
Arthur freezes in his tracks as he's just about to exit the car. The bag. Where's Ariadne's bag? The outfit she's wearing has no pockets, so where the hell is the program?  
   
His heart starts to beat double time, his scalp prickles with heat and fear. He last saw it in her hand, then she was reaching into her bag to retrieve the Glock and now her bag is gone. The program, has she lost the fucking flashdrive, has she –  
   
Ariadne catches his look, grins wide. "Wondering where the flashdrive is?" She waggles her brows and he wants to slap her across the face for it, she waits until Eames has rounded the car as well and... lifts the skirt of her dress to reach for her panties. _Into_ her panties.  
   
Eames already starts to laugh loud and dirty before Arthur has fully registered what Ariadne is doing, what she's pulling from her underwear.  
   
And Arthur?  
   
Arthur snaps. Clean and cold. Feels that final push over the line he's been treading hitting him like a lightning-strike even as he understands that this was the safest place she could have kept it.  
   
He doesn't think anymore.  
   
Just moves.  
 

***

   
Arthur doesn't let go of her arm until they're all in the warehouse. His hand bites into her skin, her muscles. She tries to ignore it, is too high on adrenaline, on the rush of success and danger and relief.  
   
She lets out a whoop when the door falls shut behind them but it dies on her lips when Arthur whirls her around so she's nose to nose with him.  
   
"What the hell, Ariadne?"  
   
A fine sheen on sweat glistens on his upper lip. His jaw is tense and, absurdly, she is reminded of the nutcrackers her mother always brings out for Christmas. She can't help the grin spreading over her face or the giggle that escapes her.  
   
They made it and he looks like one of her mother's nutcrackers and, hell, maybe she is hysterical but she can't _stop_ it.  
   
She ignores the flash of warning in his eyes and only realises that she's gone too far when he grabs her chin, forceful, tight.  
   
"This is funny to you?" he asks and grips her chin tighter, fingers pressing against bone, sharp blossoms of pain. "Funny?" he repeats.  
   
Her heart slams against her ribcage, she tastes the beats on her tongue. Arthur's eyes are dark. She knows her own must be wide, she feels like the proverbial deer in headlights and hates the onrush of weakness when she was still so strong just seconds ago, hates the shock.  
   
It's Eames who breaks the tension. "Easy there," he says amicably, placing a hand on Arthur's shoulder.  
   
Ariadne feels the tension in Arthur accelerate, sees the flash of rage cross his face. She doesn't have time to warn Eames, can only watch as Arthur whips around, fist shooting forward and connecting with Eames' face with a sickening noise.  
   
Eames gives a surprised grunt of pain and stumbles backward on the bed, carried by the punch's momentum. Arthur follows, tense as a bowstring, hands raised, ready to throw another punch, but just as his knees hit the bed next to Eames, Eames catches Arthur's fist, twists it behind his back hard enough he's about to dislocate Arthur's shoulder and slings him down on the bed too. He uses his greater weight and strength and Arthur's exhaustion to hold him there until Arthur goes still under him.  
   
"I suggest you take a deep breath," Eames says in a tone Ariadne has never heard from him before, "and reassess your strategy."  
   
Arthur's shoulderblades move under the leather of his jacket. He forcibly relaxes his posture, unclenches his fists slowly.  
   
Ariadne dares to take the first breath she has in what feels like minutes. The tension in the air sears her lungs and she can't help but notice that Eames has his full body pressed against Arthur. She shuts down her inappropriate thoughts.  
   
Arthur murmurs something into the mattress, and Eames lets go of him. "Much better," he murmurs and rolls to the side.  
   
Arthur moves so fast it's a blur, but the fight, the punch she expects doesn't come. Instead, Arthur rises from his crouch and walks toward the bathroom so fast it looks as though he's running. Ariadne sees his pupils are dilated – his eyes look _black_. He leaves the door open; she hears water running into the sink, then splashing, and a subdued, _"Fuck."_  
   
Arthur stays in the bathroom. A lot of water goes down the drain.  
   
Ariadne reaches a shaky hand to pull a chair closer, then remembers Eames and the punch Arthur landed. She lets go of the chair and walks to the bed instead.  
   
The gun peaking from Eames' waistband glistens dull in the odd light of the Finnish night.  
   
Eames hasn't moved since Arthur rose. His eyes are closed, his chest rises and falls fast. The pulse on his neck jumps. A trickle of blood is drying in his stubble.  
   
"Sit down, love," he says suddenly, startling her. He pats his hand against the mattress.  
   
She sits without thinking just as the water in the bathroom is shut off.  
   
Eames' leg is a strip of warmth against her leg.  
   
She's quiet for a minute before it bursts out of her, "What the hell just happened?"  
   
Eames doesn't have time to answer because Arthur reappears in the workshop and walks stiffly to the chair Ariadne moved earlier.  
   
He sits, bends forward, elbows on his thighs, hands clasped and dangling just under his knees. His breathing is slow, measured, controlled. Drops of water cling to his face, some collect on his eyelashes and glisten in the light that still hasn't faded despite the late hour. He looks out the window but Ariadne wonders if he sees anything.  
   
Again it's Eames who makes the first move. The creaking of the bed hangs loud in the room and her hand shoots out to clench around his wrist. "Don't." She's not going to admit it out loud, but Arthur's unexpected display of violence has shaken her to the core.  
   
Eames twitches a smile, peels her fingers from his wrist and curls his own around her hand, engulfs it in heat. He squeezes, once, but doesn't say anything.  
   
She nods, closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. The next thing she hears is the quiet snap of the factory's gate closing.  
   
When she opens her eyes again, Arthur still hasn't moved. She itches to ask what the fuck is wrong with him, wants to punch him for scaring her, for snapping her damn _neck_ in the dream, and at the same time wants to rest a hand on his shoulder to offer sympathy. She doesn't get up, however. Just watches, barely daring to breathe as a drop of water slips from his eyelashes and falls to the concrete floor.  
   
He looks up then, catches her gaze and this time, she does stop breathing. What she sees…  
   
The door swings open and the moment is lost. Arthur lowers his head again.  
   
Eames walks in, swift and sure as though he owns the large factory workshop. A bottle dangles from his fingertips. He unscrews it with an audible break, then holds it out to her.  
   
"Eames," she starts, but he shushes her.  
   
"We all need it."  
   
She takes the bottle. To her surprise, the alcohol doesn't burn its way down her throat as she takes a deep swig.  
   
Vodka. A good, smooth Finnish one, but not cold enough. She wrinkles her nose in disgust but lets the warmth spread through her chest, takes another swig, then hands the bottle back to Eames.  
   
He quirks his lips, doesn't wipe the bottle's mouth, and takes a swig of his own. With the alcohol warming her cheeks as well, she watches his throat work as he swallows.  
   
Out of the corner of her eye she sees Arthur move, something she would have missed had she only gone by sound. Arthur is quiet as a cat.  
   
He stands next to Eames, his hand extended toward the bottle.  
   
Eames watches him over the tipped-up bottle's neck before he lets the bottle sink and holds it out toward Arthur.  
   
It's between them for long seconds. Their gazes meet and once again the tension in the garage is thick enough to be cut with a knife.  
   
Arthur takes the bottle eventually, closes his eyes and puts it to his lips. He tips his head back and drinks as one would drink water, one deep gulp after another.  
   
Ariadne's eyes go wide as she watches the content of the bottle rapidly dwindle away.  
   
Eames steps forward, intent on stopping Arthur, but Arthur retreats, keeps drinking.  
   
Eames moves fast, then, grabs the bottle. "That's quite enough, pet," he says and pries the bottle from Arthur's death-grip on it.  
   
Arthur doesn't let go, so the vodka sloshes over his chin and shirt when Eames finally manages to pull the bottle away.  
   
Ariadne crosses her arms over her chest. "Explain," she demands. "Somebody explain what the hell is going on here."  
   
Arthur slumps on the bed, head in his hands. She doesn't wait for an answer from him.  
   
"Eames." Her tone is cutting, the alcohol helps. "What are you not telling me?"  
   
"Ignorance is – "  
   
She takes a threatening step forward, closes her hand around the bottleneck. "If you finish that sentence, I swear I'll smash the bottle in your face."  
   
" – is a dangerous thing," Eames finishes, unperturbed by her outbreak. He slides her fingers off the bottle and sets it down on the dirty floor. "You deserve to know."  
   
So he tells her.  
   
From the corner of her eyes, Ariadne sees Arthur retrieving the bottle and sipping from it while Eames fills her in. One gulp, two, three; his throat is working, the movement of his adam's apple mesmerizing her.  
   
Eames tells her what she hopes is everything. About the strange clients and how they turned out to be intelligence. At that part of Eames' tale, Arthur twitches momentarily and looks up, but then only nods, tired. He runs his left hand through his hair and Ariadne sees blood on it, blood from dozens of small cuts. Ariadne frowns. Must be from the glass that rained down on him in the café. She looks toward Eames, but he must have seen it, too, because he stops his tale momentarily and slips into the bathroom only to return seconds later with a bottle of iodine and some toilet paper. He sets it on the ground next to the bed and continues talking.  
   
Eames tells her more. About Saarela and his program and the interest the intelligence agencies have in it. About a woman named Katya and the underworld bounty she told Eames was on Ariadne's head. About the way the program file and decryption key they have on the flashdrive is the only copy in existence.  
   
"And the upload failed?"  
   
Arthur nods again. He doesn't look up.  
   
Ariadne takes a deep breath and rests the back of her hand against her forehead. "So that means we're on international wanted lists of at least three intelligence agencies now." She lifts her other hand and counts her fingers. "Also, there's a bounty on my head and the only thing that might save us is this flashdrive. _If_ we manage to get out of the country to upload it somewhere and make it go live." Her head swims as the enormity of that sinks in. She breathes out, slow. "Tell me you have more vodka."  
   
Eames slants a look at Arthur, then produces another, smaller bottle from the fridge, more of a hipflask-sample size and hands it to her. She up-ends it, knowing it'll knock her off her feet and not caring. If there ever has been a moment that warranted being absolutely stupidly drunk, this is it.  
   
"I'm surprised you're not freaking out more," Eames admits, pulling the empty bottle from her hand.  
   
"You just see the exterior," she answers, her voice smooth and clear despite the alcohol still burning her throat. "Give me a day to digest and come up with ways to kick both your asses to the moon and back."  
   
Eames tenses at this and she can see that he already opens his mouth for a retort, but to Ariadne's surprise, Arthur looks up at Eames and shakes his head minutely. Eames closes his mouth again, but his jaw works.  
   
She wants to. God, does she want to. She also knows it won't do her any good, because these two men are all she has right now, her only chance to get out of this alive. They essentially took away her life as she knows it. But if she's honest with herself, she doesn't know if she can hate them for it. She hasn't felt the same in Paris since the Fischer job. She jumped at Arthur's offer.  
   
"I don't get it, either," Arthur says, his voice made unsteady by the alcohol but his gaze on her is hard. "You almost died. _We_ almost died. I fucking almost got all of us killed."  
   
"We're here," Eames says, gentle as though calming a spooked animal. "We made it out, alive and successful." He dabs an iodine swab on a glass cut on Arthur's hand. Arthur flinches.  
   
"How can you take all of this in stride?" Arthur turns from Ariadne to Eames. She can see that the look is meant to be stern but falls short somewhere around confused. Or maybe worried. But worried about what?  
   
"What makes you think we are?" Eames asks, his voice dark and raw as he finishes cleaning the cuts on Arthur's arm. Ariadne sees that Eames' fingertips linger just a little longer than strictly necessary. There's a tension in Eames that matches her own. The adrenaline from the fight and the narrow escape is still coursing through their systems. Unlike Arthur, neither of them have vented the overload. It crawls underneath her skin, skitters up and down, trying to break free.  
   
"I told you not to dabble in this," Eames says, sounding sad, and Ariadne knows suddenly that she's missing most of the background of the story Eames has just told her. Too much to be informed about now when they're all teetering on the edge, so she fights the urge to inquire.  
   
To do something, she reaches out a hand to take the bloodied swabs from Eames but shifts her weight wrong, puts too much of it on her left foot and hisses through her teeth. Pain shoots through her, sharp and hot.  
   
Both Eames' and Arthur's gazes snap up to her.  
   
"What's wrong?"  
   
"Ankle," she says, clenching her teeth against the pain. The alcohol subdued the pain until now, but her weight aggravates it all over again.  
   
"Sit," Eames says.  
   
She complies without protest. He pulls off her shoe, then her socks, then Eames' warm, careful hands are on her heel and calf, fingers testing heat and swelling. It hurts, but at the same time, she's electrically aware of his touch as well, and slightly distracted. Her thoughts are still racing with left over adrenaline.  
   
"Feels worse than it is," Eames says when he lets go of her ankle. "Probably sprained."  
   
Ariadne bites the inside of her cheek. It's one thing to be injured in a dream when you can just wake up and be fine, but this? This is reality, and reality hurts like a _bitch_.  
   
"An icepack would be ideal, but I'm afraid you'll have to go without."  
   
Of course. She's seen their fridge, it doesn't have an icebox compartment. She closes her eyes and groans. "Then give me the bottle." She all but snaps her fingers in Eames' direction.  
   
He huffs a laugh. "Won't do you much good anymore."  
   
Oh, right. Arthur. And herself. She flops back on the mattress, her calves hanging over the edge of the bed. "Just great. No ice, no booze, and not even someone to kiss it better."  
   
Distant thunder rumbles outside and she drifts, lulled by the sound of rain on the garage's tin roof and by the alcohol swirling in her system.  
   
She blames the latter for not noticing the touch on her foot for what it is earlier.  
   
"I'm sorry," she hears and the sound of Arthur's voice is so raw that she can't help but open her eyes and lift her head to look at him.  
   
"I'm sorry about this," he murmurs again – and presses his lips to her instep.  
   
She sits up abruptly and Arthur's fingers slide from her ankle. Quick, sharp pain has her clenching her teeth on a hiss. What the hell is he apologising for? For hurting her? For getting her involved in all this? She knows he wouldn't, hell, he _shouldn't_ apologise for that, because after all, getting involved was her choice.  
   
Arthur reaches up to where he grabbed her chin earlier, his hand twitching forward but stopping in mid-movement. "I'm – "  
   
"Stop." Ariadne stops his words with her index, ring and middle finger over his lips. "Just stop." His lips are warm under her fingertips. "You can't control everything."  
   
She presses her fingertips tighter against his mouth when she feels him trying to respond. She can handle him snapping, and she can handle him going through the aftermath of it, but she cannot... she _cannot_ handle him apologising, because if he's human, if he's weak now, what the hell does that make her?  
   
"I'm just glad you told me everything now," she tells him, and it's the closest she can get to telling him he's forgiven for everything he did and didn't do.  
   
Arthur tenses und her hand and drops his head to his chest on a heavy exhalation.  
   
Eames' support is wordless. He moves to crouch next to Arthur so his hip rests against the futon, then he sets the palm of his right hand against Arthur's nape.  
   
Ariadne catches Eames' gaze – open, unguarded for once – and can't read what she finds there at all. Both men crouch before her; Eames' hand is heavy on Arthur's neck, his thumb smoothes along taut muscles. Arthur's breathing is uneven.  
   
Out of instinct, Ariadne sets her hand on Arthur's bowed head, cards her fingers through dark hair that's warm near the scalp and silky cool near the tips. It's no longer perfectly slicked back. She scrapes her fingernails lightly over his scalp; he gives a choked gasp and sways, his hands shoot forward to support his weight, they come to rest to the left and right of her thighs.  
   
She sees Eames press blunt fingernails into the side of Arthur's neck, sees a shiver run through Arthur. He moves a fraction, rests his forehead on her knees, an acute bloom of warmth against her bare skin. His breath skitters down her shins. She closes her eyes at the feeling of claustrophobia that's welling up inside of her, just keeps threading her hand through Arthur's hair, slow and reassuring.  
   
Ariadne stops when she meets Eames' hand, a warm obstacle. Feels her own hand rise and fall with Arthur's breathing. Eames moves his fingertips. Just the tips. Rests them on her nails. His hand looks huge next to hers. She's trapped yet safe, pulls her fingers up to press against his.  
   
She looks up then, meets his gaze even though she wonders why because she still can't read him and she wonders if she ever did. She watches his mouth tighten and tries to pulls away, because suddenly, this is too intimate and too close. Arthur's warm breath on her bare shins makes her hyper-aware of every physical sensation, of the goosebumps skittering up and down her arms despite the warmth, of the warmth of Eames' hand against hers, and the way the adrenaline still coursing through her system has her contemplating options which suddenly seem to be blatantly present.  
   
It's just the adrenaline, though, so she tries to move – and realises, slowed by the alcohol, that she can't. Eames moves quickly, traps her wrist. He holds her gaze for a few more seconds, with a gaze that makes her uncomfortable because he seems to look right into her, past walls and locks and safety measures.  
   
He bends forward — she notices, absurdly, that his hair has curled where it's soaked in sweat – and presses his lips against her knuckles. It's dry, warm pressure, light and undemanding. It's soft warmth against her skin and it's not enough. She wonders if it'll ever be. Arthur's breath hitches, no doubt because he feels Eames closer than before. Ariadne digs her nails into Arthur's scalp, shifts her knuckles against Eames' lips. He rests his lips there for a few long seconds, then withdraws and looks at her again.  
   
Ariadne's mind races. She still cannot tell what Eames expects her to do, what he wants or needs, but she knows what she needs. The need for a more profound sense of connection, the need for closeness in any given way is overwhelming suddenly. Her skin prickles with it. Her breathing picks up. If either man makes a move now, she'll fuck him without thinking twice. The thought makes her wet and Arthur must be blind drunk if he doesn't smell it. She doesn't care if he does, but knows that they're all drunk and having sex now would be the worst idea since she accepted Arthur's job offer. It doesn't mean she's not thinking about it, though.  
   
Arthur inhales deep, but doesn't shift his head, his hands move against her thighs, come to rest against the fabric of her skirt. He's noticed. She refuses to blush. She's not going to apologise.  
   
She refuses to look at Eames, though, and instead bends forward and presses her lips against Arthur's nape. Her hair falls forward and screens her from Eames' reaction but leaves her open to Arthur, to the sharp, grounding bite of fingers into her thighs, to the movement of his forehead against her knees. To the deep inhalation and the moist warmth as he exhales unsteadily.  
   
She waits a couple of seconds, feels the tension ramp up and waits for another reaction from him; she catalogues the slight tremble, the way his breathing changes, the way his hands stop hurting and start soothing. When nothing else happens, Ariadne moves her head, rests her cheek against his neck and wills the tension from her body.  
   
Arthur moves and then they're cheek to cheek. The position leaves her neck in a crick and her back protesting. His day-old stubble burns and prickles, she smells the vodka on his breath, but despite the discomfort, she smiles.  
   
Eames uncovers this smile when he pushes her hair behind her ear. She's once again surprised by how gentle his fingers can be. He runs his fingertips over her temple, down her cheek to her jaw. She reaches for his hand, pulls it close and shuts her eyes before pressing her lips to his knuckles in a perfect copy of his earlier gesture.  
   
The next thing she knows, he's pulling his hand away and she feels the altogether different warmth of his lips on hers in a gentle touch. Ariadne's surprised by how _not_ surprised she is by his move. Eames is not a patient man. The need to deepen the kiss is difficult to ignore but she fights it down.  
   
She opens her eyes again and finds his open as well. He has withdrawn a little, runs his fingertip over her bottom lip.  
   
His gaze drops to Arthur. "We should move," he murmurs.  
   
Arthur's lashes brush her cheek when he opens his eyes. He tenses underneath her, moves away, jerky, fast. Their heads collide with a painful thump. She twitches away, the room around her tilts, and she hates the effect of the alcohol she's had. She's always been a lightweight drinker and should have known better.  
   
Eames moves before she can, clamps his hand around Arthur's upper arm. "Stay." It's not a suggestion.  
   
Ariadne straightens her back and tries to clear her head. Arthur looks hunted, his crouched look that of a cat ready to bolt, all tense muscles and looking for escape routes. She thinks that if it weren't for Eames' hand holding him, he'd be out of the garage already. It's weird, Eames isn't even holding on all that tight, but that small touch seems to stop Arthur.  
   
It sends the cogs in her brain turning, she all but feels them speeding up. She raises her hand, lets it hover between them, then sets it on Arthur's cheek. His skin is hot against her palm and he tilts his head against it for the fraction of a second before realising what he's doing and moving away. It gives her the answer she's been looking for, though.  
   
Her heart races when she looks at Eames, tries to communicate without words. She's not sure he fully understands her intent, but she has no time to explain, doesn't think she could without it turning awkward and clumsy. She puts her hand back on Arthur cheek, then glides it lower, to his neck and his jacket, insinuates her fingers underneath the collar and pushes. Eames thankfully takes the clue and helps her pull the jacket off Arthur's shoulders. She still expects Arthur to pull away, but, surprisingly enough, he stays still.  
   
Once the jacket is off, Ariadne closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, then starts unbuttoning her blouse under what she knows are the watchful eyes of both men. She shrugs out of it and reveals the tank top underneath. Weirdly, she feels more naked this way than she would fully unclothed. It doesn't matter, though. She opens her eyes again, searches Eames' face, then nods and extends her hand.  
   
Eames gets up, pulls her up and away from Arthur by the hand she's stretching out and flush against his chest. His eyes search hers, she sees his pupils wide with alcohol and his lips moist from where he's just licked them. Where he's biting them. She reaches up to touch her index finger to his bottom lip. She's not steady, sways on the spot. His hand presses tighter against her back.  
   
Then Eames is kissing her, hot and urgent and messy with no pretence and very little gentleness and she swims in the rush of his smell, _their_ smell, of vodka-induced vertigo and mingled need. It's not where she intended this to go, but she can't and doesn't want to fight it, not when Eames groans under his breath and licks into her mouth with a single-minded precision that makes her toes curl and that she'd have expected from Arthur, not him. Arthur, who is right next to them. Arthur, who must be watching them.  
   
Arthur, who suddenly moves at a speed too high for her to follow in her drunken state and is behind her, then, who sets his lips, his teeth, to the side of her neck and fucking _bites down_ , a sharp ring of acute pain.  
   
She doesn't recognise the sound she's making, didn't know she was capable of anything like it. She struggles free of Eames on a gasp and reaches for Arthur, sees his pupils blown wide and his mouth open on a pant, pulls him into a bruising kiss and somehow they all tumble on the bed, touching and kissing as though their lives depend on it. Arthur's shirt disappears; her skirt ist bunched up around her waist. Eames' pants are smooth against her bare legs and she feels his erection against her hip.  
   
Somewhere in her mind Ariadne comes back to the thought that she's too drunk for this. The alcohol-induced vertigo pulls at her mind and makes her nauseous and the longer she kisses either of them, the more she dislikes the vodka she tastes on them. She's about to sleep with two men and she really doesn't want it to happen when they're all drunk and out of their minds and might regret it in the morning.  
   
She also really, really hates the taste of the vodka by now. Another tangent twists her train of thought aside, they couldn't have had chocolate before they started this, bittersweet chocolate maybe, with a bit of chili... she can't keep her thoughts straight anymore. She pulls back a little, away from Eames' lips on hers – god, those lips, she has plans for them later, for them and his clever, clever tongue – and Arthur's mouth on her collarbone – she has plans for that mouth, too, but not now, not _now_. Her head swims, their combined heat makes the vertigo worse, and she's beginning to fray around the edges at the need washing over her and through her. She wants to fuck them. More than that, though, she wants the room to stop spinning.  
   
Arthur moves his hand to cup her breast and Eames rocks against her hip to get even closer to her than before, reaching over her to stroke Arthur's flank. Arthur responds with a guttural groan that shoots straight to her clit and has her inner muscles clenching, but vertigo pulls at her. Her stomach does a slow-motion roll and Ariadne sits bolt upright, flailing.  
   
"I'm getting sick," she declares.  
   
Arthur's hand on her upper thigh freezes. Eames is completely still next to her, she can't even hear him breathe.  
   
Her stomach lurches and she stumbles toward the bathroom, her feet bare against the cold and dirty floor of the garage. She forgets about her ankle, puts her weight on it and staggers, pain shooting through her. She hears Eames behind her, trying to get up to help but raises a wobbly hand in his direction to stop him. She limps to the bathroom as quickly as she can and turns on the faucet to splash cold water in her face. Salty saliva pools under her tongue and drips from her bottom lip as she hangs over the sink to fight the inevitable and thinks that, yeah, just perfect. Picture-perfect ending for an attempt at sleeping with two men.  
   
Ariadne rinses her mouth of the salt and vodka taste, spits, and then drinks big mouthfuls of painfully cold water. With some difficulty, she sticks her head under the faucet as much as possible and lets the frigid water cool her forehead.  
   
She can't say how long she stays like that, only that eventually, somebody turns off the faucet, pulls her wet hair back from her face and dabs her face dry with a towel. She doesn't need to open her eyes, she can tell it's Eames by his smell and the familiar feel of his hands.  
   
With some of the haze lifted, Ariadne wonders when his hands became familiar and why the thought doesn't scare the living daylights out of her.  
   
She keeps her eyes closed and he lifts her off her feet, carries her back to what she supposes is the bed. He sets her down and she does open her eyes when she doesn't feel the bed next to her dip.  
   
"What are you doing?" she says, lifting herself up on her elbows. The room still rocks up and down like a float. He should be next to her, it doesn't make sense for him to be standing there, watching her.  
   
"Social experiment," Eames answers with an odd smile tinged with sadness. "The effects of Finnish vodka on skinny people."  
   
Next to her, Arthur gives a loud snore and Ariadne flops back with a laugh. Great. Just great. She's wet as the damn rainforest and in no state to put it to good use. Arthur has passed out. It's not going to be an exclusive thing, though. Both or none. She's never been one to settle for less. "Can I get a rain check?" she asks and extends her hand in Eames' direction again.  
   
"Are you s – "  
   
"Don't even think of finishing that sentence," she warns and means it. "Get back here." When he doesn't move immediately, she squints at him and says, "Now."  
   
"Bossy," Eames mumbles with a smile but he lies down next to her again, spoons around her, his arm around her midsection, his hand resting against her belly. She feels his erection push against her, all but hears his heart beat against her back. Fast. It surprises her how easy it is to suppress the sexual tension still threading them together despite the fact that they're only separated by thin layers of clothing. She begins to wonder if this quiet moment isn't better than any rushed sex would have been.  
   
Next to them, Arthur moves, rolls closer to her and pushes up against her. His head comes to rest just under her breast, feverish warm. She threads her hand through his hair again, stretches her legs against his body, feels his erection against her thigh. No, Eames isn't alone. But he _is_ the only one conscious.  
   
"Sorry 'bout the blue balls," Ariadne whispers.  
   
She feels the puff of breath against her shoulder when Eames chuckles. "I take your rain check."  
   
They end up touching languidly, hands stroking over skin that is unfamiliar yet familiar. Ariadne tangles her hand with Eames' to stroke over Arthur's naked back. It's the last thing she remembers before she falls asleep – Arthur's hand coming to snake around her waist, his hair tickling her cleavage, Eames' chest warm and broad against her back, his arm alongside hers, his hand resting on hers, her palm against Arthur's back.  
   
She knows, realistically, that she should be freaking out. But here, right now, she can't bring herself to care.  
   
Eames kisses the outside of her ear and she smiles, hooks her foot over his calf, and keeps him close. She has Eames' heartbeat at her back and Arthur's at her front.  
   
Despite everything that has happened to bring them here, Ariadne has never felt more content.  
  


	9. Troika

   
Ariadne wakes curled into Eames – definitely Eames – warmed from head to toe. His breathing is slow and even and she's surprised he's not snoring. What little there is of his chest hair tickles her nose, though, and she sneezes. Vaguely mortified, she pats at the now damp spot on his chest and tries to look up, a fierce blush warming her cheeks.  
   
Arms squeeze around her and lips press against the top of her head. "Morning, Sneezy."  
   
"Hi," she replies in a small voice. Her breath is reflected by his chest and oh, God, that's horrible. Ariadne clamps her hand over her mouth. If she thought about continuing what they started last night, she's definitely not doing it like this.  
   
Eames hand glides over her back, he moves to nuzzle her neck and no, no, no. If her breath is bad, then so is his and she's not having this. She has some standards. She disentangles herself from him, sits up and pushes away his wandering hand. "No kissing before we all brush our teeth."  
   
The _we all_ and Eames' cracked open eyes squinting toward the other – empty – side of the bed make her realise that Arthur's not in bed with them any longer.  
   
She frowns, searches the room and finds him sitting in a chair, appealingly shirtless, nursing a cup of what she supposes is coffee. Relieved that he hasn't left, as was her first concern, Ariadne quirks a smile at him before she gets up off the bed and dashes toward the bathroom.  
   
She's just squeezing toothpaste onto the brush when she hears Eames' voice, pitched low and still rough from sleep. "You picked up some bad habits from Cobb."  
   
Arthur doesn't reply or maybe she just doesn't hear it. She starts to brush her teeth vigorously, trying to get rid of every bit of leftover alcohol and bad taste. One of the washcloths next to the sink is damp, which means that Arthur must have been awake for a while and has already cleaned up. She's seen, or rather heard, Arthur's morning routine a couple of mornings now. One less man to worry about having morning breath, at least.  
   
Ariadne washes quickly, less to be presentable and more just to clean off yesterday's sweat that's been itching on her skin. When she pulls off her tanktop, though, it smells of Eames. A tingle of anticipation runs through her, knowing where it's likely going to lead once she leaves the bathroom. All right, so maybe it would be a good idea to shave her legs and under her arms. She likes being complimented for soft skin.  
   
When she emerges, she finds Eames sitting up, looking at Arthur. He rises when he sees Ariadne and she has the distinct feeling that there was a conversation going on she didn't hear. Eames gives her a fleeting smile as she pads closer barefoot and he brushes past her to the bathroom – but not before resting his hand on Arthur's naked, bony shoulder, though, and saying, "Don't be a fool, Arthur. You've never been before. Take what's being offered."  
   
Oh. Ariadne stops halfway to the bed. Behind her, Eames closes the bathroom door. So this is what all that was about.  
   
"You know you won't get any better than Eames and me," she comments lightly, deliberately humming the next sentence to a familiar tune, "Think of all the fun you'd miss."  
   
He looks away unsmiling and she can see him begin to shut down, shutting her out, shutting _them_ out, and hell no. She won't have this. They already went too far yesterday to stop now.  
   
She doesn't know exactly what Arthur and Eames talked about, but Arthur looks open now, exposed and thin-skinned and it kills her, bit by little bit, so she lifts her hand, raises it to his face and trails her fingertips along his sharp, now stubbled jaw, his cheek, to just underneath his lips.  
   
"Arthur, you stupid idiot," she says gently when he flinches.  
   
His gaze snaps to her face, open but unsure, so damn unsure, and unlike the assertive, strong Arthur she knows that she just inches forward and rests her lips against his. His walls aren't back up yet and she doesn't want to be on their wrong side when they are restored. It's not a kiss, it's just skin on skin, lips against lips. She keeps stroking her hand along his cheek, traces his ear and they share several breaths through their half-open lips. Ariadne tilts his chin and captures his bottom lip between her lips, gentle pressure. He still doesn't react noticeably, still doesn't kiss back, but slowly, slowly, he gravitates toward her. She curls her hand around his ear, strokes the skin just underneath his earlobe with the backs of her fingernails and his breath hitches. His hair – free of gel and still slightly damp from washing it – is silky and cool and she wants to run her hand through it again and again.  
   
Finally, _finally,_ she gets a reaction and he moves his head, just a fraction, slides against her upper lip with the slightest hint of teeth. His hand glides from her shoulder to her neck, cups the back of her head and he breathes out just as he glides his lips over hers, captures her lower lip this time and touches it with a languorous, torturous hint of tongue.  
   
A sound struggles free of Ariadne's throat. After last night, frantic and drunk, this is slow and intimate and conscious. They both know that they can't walk away from this anymore.  
   
It spirals from there. As though he's waking up in increments, Arthur begins to move against her, deepens the kiss and licks into her mouth. He groans when their tongues meet, pulls her against him and this is when the switch is flipped, where his hands clench against her and his hips search for friction, where he sucks on her tongue until she can't breathe, stripping small moans from her, where they break apart and they gulp in air before their mouths meet again. Her world drowns in the pounding of her heart in her head, in the way he suddenly, without any pretence, pulls her into his lap and winds her legs around his hips and rocks up and, fuck, she attempts to break away from his mouth to breathe his name, but he doesn't let her, keeps going, keeps kissing her, grinds her against him so she feels his erection rub against her panties.  
   
A shadow falls over them and this time, Arthur pulls away; she hears him give a strangled moan and opens her eyes to find Eames next to him. Eames bending down. Eames stopping for a few long seconds, right next to them, close enough Ariadne can _smell_ him, a heady blend of warm skin and their shared soap. She realises he's giving Arthur an out – not her, just Arthur – and wants to smack him upside the head for his fucking sense of nobility. She clenches her hand on his bicep to convey this, but then Arthur moves, reaches for the back of Eames' head to pull him into an open-mouthed kiss with one hand and grinds her against his crotch with the other and all she can get past her vocal chords is a strangled, "Oh, God."  
   
Eames' hand curls around her neck, his other glides into Arthur's hair, bunching and likely pulling at it. They both groan and the vibration seeps into her skin and sets it on fire. Ariadne reaches out to anchor herself, but realises soon enough that the chair Arthur's sitting on is the worst possible place to be doing this. There's nothing to grab on to and no way to move safely.  
   
She disentangles herself from the hands roaming over her skin and gets up. Her legs are wobbly, her palms damp. For a while, she just looks at Arthur and Eames kissing, tries hard not to feel left out, and misses Arthur's warmth against her. Her fault for standing up and moving away, she knows, but not entirely. They look like they've found water after a severe draught; they don't so much kiss as they breathe each other in, as though they have waited for years to do this. Some distant part of her brain reminds her that that's very likely the truth. Despite the small twinge of disappointment she feels, it's incredibly hot.  
   
Arthur's slim and wiry against Eames' bigger build; his long fingers span the dark tattoos on Eames' skin, gliding under the white undershirt, flexing and unflexing, kneading. She sees Eames suck on Arthur's bottom lip, hears Arthur's muted groan, nearly _feels_ the way he bucks up into Eames the way he bucked into her earlier. Her face flushes and she moves backwards until the backs of her knees hit the futon and she sits down heavily, not elegant in the least and not caring.  
   
Their kisses are wet and open, she hears them and feels their ghosts on her own skin, tastes Arthur on her lips and in her mouth. Unthinking, she opens the zipper of the skirt she's stupidly still wearing since last night. The silky material glides against her legs and just adds to the sensation as she kicks it off. She's already impatient.  
   
The chair groans under their weight when Eames sinks further into Arthur. They're gorgeous together, Arthur's skin pale against Eames' tan. Ariadne watches the long muscles and sinews in his arms tighten as he holds on to Eames. She's fascinated by the veins on his arm, the jut of his wrist, and catalogues his reactions to what Eames is doing.  
   
Eames... She doesn't think she's ever seen him this way. She knows he's focused, but right now, it seems that the only thing in his world is Arthur, like Arthur's the morning star Eames navigates by, the only thing he needs. It makes her wonder who of them wanted this more. For the moment, she is content to watch something unfold in front of her eyes that should be private but is willingly shared. Eames' muscles ripple under his skin, making the tattoos appear to be alive, as though they oscillate under Arthur's hands. His back is free of ink, though, she notes as Arthur slides his hands underneath Eames' undershirt and pushes it up. She wants to get up and touch both of them but stays rooted on the spot. Arthur presses his fingertips against Eames' spine and Eames surges forward, both hands grabbing fistfuls of Arthur's hair. The muscles in his ass flex. From where she's sitting, Ariadne can see the outline of his erection through his dark pants, remembers the feel of it pressed against her last night. He's not a small man, a fact that makes her imagination go into overdrive. Arthur's groan settles in her belly too, hot and heavy with promise, and she decides she's had enough. She slips her hand into her panties and imagines Arthur against her, Eames inside her. It's so easy. So damn easy.  
   
She must have made a noise because Eames chooses that very moment to look up at her. His gaze goes to her hand and she thinks she can see his pupils dilate from the distance. He stops kissing Arthur, takes Arthur's chin and directs his gaze in her direction. Both men stare at her, openly, their eyes dark. Arthur looks dishevelled, his lips kiss-swollen and a delicious, dark red. His chest rises and falls, while his hand glides compulsively over Eames' arm; Ariadne swears she can hear the quiet susurrus of hair being disturbed. Arthur looks content – no, _intent_ , she notices with a shudder that zings to her toes when she rubs her fingertip over her clit – to watch her, but Eames scrambles to his feet, then pulls Arthur up and with him to the bed.  
   
"Not starting without us, are you?" he murmurs. He kneels in front of her to presses a kiss to her clavicle. Arthur slides behind her on the bed and Eames takes his hand, places it on her belly while he opens her knees and slides between her thighs, holding them open wide with his shoulders. She leans down to kiss him, loses herself in the skilful glide of his lips and tongue, and finds traces of Arthur in Eames' taste.  
   
Arthur's hands flex against her belly, then begin to roam underneath the tank top. His thumbs brush the underside of her breasts and she stops kissing Eames and lets her head fall to Arthur's chest, a move he takes advantage of immediately to kiss and nip at her exposed neck. The sting of his teeth has her inner muscles clenching, her breath coming in short gasps, the feeling accentuated by how far her thighs are spread. At the same time, Eames strokes his fingers over her hand in her panties, pressing lightly before pulling her hand out and looking at her glistening fingers.  
   
God, Ariadne wants to kiss him again. She wants his mouth on her clit, but Eames takes her hand and sucks each of her fingers, tasting her, laving his tongue around them and giving Arthur a wicked look over her shoulders. Everything inside her contracts at the silky-soft-warm wetness of his mouth. Arthur's breath stutters as he watches, skitters over Ariadne's neck. She pulls her hand away from Eames reluctantly, already imagining that deft tongue put to better use, and Eames gets to his feet.  
   
"Stop," she says, her voice rough. "Take it off. I want to see you."  
   
Eames grins and makes a show of slowly, slowly stripping out of the undershirt. Arthur takes his cue and slides her tank top up and off her from behind as well. He works his way back and up the futon as Eames crawls in with them and, what, no, wait. Ariadne makes a noise of protest, she wants him back on his knees between her legs, she wants his mouth –  
   
"I've no objection to going down on my knees, poppet," he tells her, his voice and expression full of laughter, "but this futon is just too low for it to work."  
   
Arthur shifts her higher on the futon and is between the two of them, then, his hands back on Ariadne's bared breasts, his eyes dark with intent. He's just beginning to lean down when Eames murmurs, "Sauce for the gander, I think," and Arthur's mouth parts on a harsh breath as Eames finds his nipple. Eames' hair tickles her bare stomach and once again she's staring, at the way Eames' lips close so perfectly over Arthur's nipple, covering his areola, how Eames' cheeks hollow and Arthur arches into the sensation. His hand rests on her breast, forgotten except for the occasional twitch. Eames eyes are closed now, as he sucks and teases, focused on Arthur and his reactions all the way.  
   
Ariadne leans over Eames and traces his shoulderblades with her fingertips, follows the long, corded muscles from his shoulders to the swell of his ass. And what a glorious one it is, she thinks with a grin and gives into the urge to pinch. Eames flinches, lifts his head from Arthur's chest and gives her a playful glare.  
   
"Cheeky."  
   
"I'd say," Ariadne replies and smoothes her hand over the fabric still covering his ass. She wants more than this, though.  
   
Eames has rested his cheek on Arthur's chest and is looking at her with laughing eyes. Arthur's hands move over his arms and back but stop at Eames waistband. A frown plays over his face.  
   
Ariadne can see Arthur thinking, some of the haze lifting and she knows she needs to move fast if she wants to keep him with them. "Strip him," she blurts out.  
   
Arthur's gaze snaps to her.  
   
"Do it. Strip him." She pushes at Eames so he comes to lie on his back – something he lets her do with a still amused face – then leans over to Arthur to give him a deep kiss and whispers against his lips, "Slowly."  
   
Arthur's eyes darken. For a moment, he hesitates, then he moves, graceful as ever, glides his hands over Eames' arms and chest and belly. He leans forward to press his lips against Eames' bellybutton and Eames squirms, torn between laugher and arousal. Arthur glides his lips lower, along the line of Eames' waistband. Eames' hips move, his erection strains against the material of his pants and Ariadne can't help but run a fingernail over the outline of it.  
   
Eames breathes a choked "Fuck", tries to reach down and pull Arthur up for a kiss, but Ariadne interrupts his hands, interlaces her fingers with his. The pressure of his fingertips almost breaks the small bones in her hands. She keeps him occupied until she hears the unmistakeable sound of a zipper being lowered and Eames' answering breath of relief. She lets go of him and moves behind Arthur who nudges Eames' ass off the bed so he can slide the pants down and off of him.  
   
Ariadne strokes her hands over Arthur now, kisses his long, taut back before reaching around and fiddling with his button and zipper. When she pulls Arthur's pants down, she stops with an appreciative smirk. Arthur's boxers are a sinfully smooth blue silk. She presses a kiss to his ass through the fabric. When she finally has divested him of his pants, she sits back on her haunches.  
   
"Kiss him," she instructs. "Keep your eyes open."  
   
Arthur moves over Eames, his thighs coming to rest on either side of Eames', but he doesn't rest his weight on him. When he leans down, he stops a mere inch away from Eames' lips and just looks, keeping himself suspended just on his arms. They're close enough they're breathing the same breath. Arthur's hair slips free from behind his ear and obscures the view when he finally dips down and kisses Eames.  
   
They stay that way for a while, just kissing, until Eames suddenly growls, shoves both hands into Arthur's hair and pulls him against him, the kiss more aggressive and much more needy than before. Arthur's arms give out and he collapses against Eames; Ariadne sees their erections slide together and for a long frozen moment, they lie perfectly still, panting, an erotic still life.  
   
Ariadne just stares, unblinking, unable to give any more commands. This reality is so much hotter than what she could have imagined.  
   
After a while, Eames rolls his hips up and Arthur shudders, pushes himself up on his arms and begins to grind against Eames in earnest.  
   
She thinks about the consequences much too late, too busy being turned on by what she sees when she watches Arthur's moves get more frantic, his breath come faster and Eames answer in kind.  
   
"Don't – " she begins when suddenly, Arthur throws his head back, his eyes open and all pupil, his mouth parted on a desperate gasp. Eames' hands clamp around Arthur's waist, dig into his hips, press him against Eames while Eames rolls his hips up and then he, too, groans low and hoarse and lets go.  
   
Arthur goes boneless on top of Eames, breathing heavily, his head resting on Eames' shoulder and Ariadne fights a whine of frustration. She crosses her arms over her chest, kicks their entangled legs lightly. "Just for the record? I hate you both."  
   
Eames cracks an eye open and manages to look sheepish even as he gentles his hands through Arthur's hair. "Oops."  
   
Ariadne sinks back on the bed with a frustrated groan and stares at the dusty, shadowed ceiling. This is not how she had imagined this would go. She knows it takes work for her to reach an orgasm, and with both men already done and ready to pass out, she'll have the equivalent of blue balls until they've recovered. Not fair, her petulant side cries out. Not fucking fair. Sure, she could get herself off, and it wouldn't be hard with the exquisite images burnt into her retina, but that's not what she wants. She's tired of her own hands. She wants them, both of them, or at least someone who isn't her. She wants a touch she doesn't know is coming.  
   
A chuckle disturbs her morose thoughts. "Oh ye of little faith." She frowns and turns to the side to see Eames shaking his head at her. "Did you think we'd forget about you?" He tugs on Arthur's hair and Arthur lifts his head from Eames' chest. He looks a little wide-eyed and impossibly relaxed, as though layers of armour have been chipped away to make way for the man underneath. He smiles at her then, lazy and slow and something in Ariadne tightens at that, at the sudden speculative glint in his tired eyes.  
   
"A little help?" Eames asks and Arthur nods, sits up, wholly unconcerned about the mess on his and Eames' bellies, his cock soft. He slides behind Ariadne, pulls her up and into his lap in an awkward tangle of limbs so she ends up sitting with her back against his chest, her thighs open, her knees on either side of his. The hair on his thighs causes pleasant friction against her freshly shaved legs. She's spread open this way, air hits her clit and ramps up the tension even if, as per usual, she's still not wet enough. She wonders how the hell she'll bring up the subject of lube.  
   
Arthur distracts her from her thoughts when he secures his one arm around her waist, long fingers stroking the point of her hip, her waist. The other hand goes to her breast, just cups it and weighs it in his palm. "So lovely," he murmurs against the side of her neck, kisses just under her ear. His voice is tired and low but still crawls under her skin, making her close her eyes. She can tell he's not up to doing much else, but this alone is enough already. She feels him breathing against the side of her neck, feels his heartbeat against her back.  
   
The creaking of plastic, of a tube being opened makes her open her eyes again. She blinks several times at the image of Eames with her small bottle of lube, squeezing some on his fingers, rubbing it to warm it up.  
   
"How – " she tries but her throat is too dry to let her form the rest of the sentence.  
   
Eames smirks. "You weren't quite as subtle as you thought, pet, a few days back when you got yourself off here," he says, his voice like liquid velvet. "I found it shoved under the duvet after you fell asleep."  
   
A fierce blush creeps up Ariadne's cheeks and spreads to her chest. She has the distinct urge to hide. "You knew?"  
   
"Darling, the entire room smelled like sex."  
   
"Oh, damn," she breathes, mortified, and closes her eyes to avoid looking at Eames. She squirms against Arthur's hold. "Sex?"  
   
Arthur chuckles against her neck, locks his arm around her waist to stop her movements. "That's the plan, eventually."  
   
Before she can reply, Eames' fingers touch her, spreading the body-warm lube over her clit, and, God, oh, God. If she was ever uncertain, she now knows that he's not too tired for this at all. Eames knows exactly what he's doing. His blunt fingers tease at her, circling and stroking, so expertly, so damn knowingly, and she wants to sob with happiness that she doesn't need to explain about the lube, he just knows, he just –  
   
Her thoughts derail when he lowers his mouth to her breast and laves at her nipple just as he pushes a finger inside of her and adds pressure to her clit at the same time. She flails, claws her hands into Arthur's thighs and feels it build and build with each new stroke of Eames' tongue and each move of his finger inside of her, but it's only when Arthur mouths at her earlobe and adds a small, stinging bite that she falls over the edge on a gasp.  
   
Eames lets go of her breast and kisses her through her orgasm until she can't breathe and the sensations are too much and she breaks away, breathing huge lungfuls of air. Eames slides his finger out of her, the sensation making her hiss. He kisses her forehead.  
   
"Better?"  
   
She lets herself fall to the side on a sated sigh, pulls Arthur with her and closes her eyes to feel the aftershocks of the orgasm. "Much."  
   
Arthur props himself up over her and turns her until she's resting on her back. "I guess that means you're relaxed enough for round two?"  
   
Ariadne squints at him. "What?"  
   
Arthur smirks, first at her, then at Eames and before Ariadne has time to wonder if she should be scared or aroused, Arthur lowers his head to kiss his way across her chest until he reaches her left breast. She sucks in a sharp breath between her teeth when he sets his lips against her nipple and kneads the other breast with his hand, not exactly gentle and exactly how she wants it.  
   
She's distracted enough that it comes as a shock when Eames slides his hands underneath her and lifts her ass up so it rests on his thighs.  
   
"Easy," Arthur admonishes, the low hum of it reverberating against her skin. He lifts his head to turn toward Eames, his gaze heavy-lidded. It lingers on her legs and he brushes a kiss against her thigh, first one, then the other, before he pulls her knees apart and exposes her to Eames.  
   
"If only I were 15 years younger," Eames muses as he strokes the inside of her thighs. His pupils are blown wide, his lips red and swollen from kissing her and he, surely he won't, he –  
   
Ariadne sucks in another breath and her head falls back when Eames bends down, wipes at the lube, rests his slippery hand on her hip and sets his lips against her clit. Arthur chooses that precise moment to gently worry her nipple with his teeth. The sensation shoots through her like a lightning strike, she's still oversensitive from her first orgasm and it won't need much to push her over the edge a second time, if only he'd go a little lower, add a little more pressure _there_ –  
   
Eames raises his head from her clit and she fights the whine of frustration, but it's the smile he gives her which stops her short, which makes her breath hitch and her heart slam against her ribcage even harder than before. Eames' gaze travels to Arthur's hand where it rests against the point of her hip. He reaches out, grasps Arthur's hand, and pulls it toward him. Arthur raises his head from her breast and for a short moment, Ariadne thinks that this is limbo all over again, her synapses firing but finding no release.  
   
Then Eames uncurls Arthur's hand, gives another one of those diabolic smiles and sucks two of Arthur's fingers into his mouth. They disappear behind Eames' lips past the second digit. Arthur's groan sets her skin on fire.  
   
This time, she doesn't fight the noises clamouring free of her when Eames releases Arthur's fingers – from his mouth, not his hand – sets his lips back against her clit and pushes Arthur's wet fingers inside her. She shouts at the invasion, her back arched, away and into their hands and mouths, it's too much, too soon, but Arthur crooks his fingers and Eames curls his tongue and before she's prepared for it, she's falling into a crystal clear, intense orgasm that shakes her apart.  
   
She reaches out to pet Eames' head when it all becomes too much and he stops with a few last, teasing licks, pulls Arthur's hand away from her. The sound of her body releasing him is obscene and she feels Arthur smirk against her ribcage.  
   
"Shut up," she whispers, breathless, but meets Eames' grin with her own. He rests her back on the bed and she watches him climb off the mattress to walk to the bathroom. His ass is a piece of art but she doesn't have the strength to keep her head up and watch him all the way to the door.  
   
She shivers all over, aftershocks skittering up and down her skin. Arthur chases them with his dry hand and breathes sleepy kisses underneath her breast. Ariadne closes her eyes and swims in the sensations, successfully shutting down her brain for once. He moves her a little so she's on her side and he spoons around her. Arthur's hand slows as it strokes her belly and soon, she feels his breathing even out. He's asleep before Eames even comes back with a damp washcloth to clean them.  
   
She cracks an eye open when he's done and slides into bed next to her. "Here's a new rule," she says, stroking her hand idly along the tattoo on his right bicep, "you don't get to get off until I do."  
   
Eames snorts a laugh. "Whatever you say."  
   
"Exactly," she agrees, pulls him closer so his head rests between her breasts and drifts off to the sound of Arthur's light snores against her back.  
 

***

   
He still thinks it should feel weirder. Less natural. It's the first time at a threesome for Eames, too, no matter what Arthur might think. But the reaction he usually has after a mistake – the racing heart, the clammy hands, the need to run – all of that is missing. Instead, he feels comfortable, as though something finally clicked into place.  
   
For just one moment, Eames wonders how long that feeling will last, then he pushes the thought aside. Take what's on offer, don't ask too many questions. It's the safest way.  
   
Eames finishes making drinks – coffee for Arthur and Ariadne, tea for him – though he vows to cure them of that habit soon and make them see the light. He sets Ariadne's mug on the table so she'll see it when she comes out of the bathroom.  
   
He carries the other two mugs to the bed where Arthur's sprawled on his belly, looking intently into his 13-inch laptop. Eames rests a hand on the warm nape of Arthur's neck once he's set down the mugs. Arthur doesn't tense; he makes a low sound under his breath and Eames sees his eyes flutter shut for just one moment. Eames smiles, glides his thumb over the vulnerable patch of skin under Arthur's ear – the one Katya mentioned, damn her eyes – and says, "Morning."  
   
Arthur shivers and catches himself, flickers a quick, grateful smile up at Eames and reaches for the mug before turning his attention back to the screen.  
   
Eames smiles, sits on the edge of the bed and bends to kiss Arthur's naked shoulder. "Did we make the news?" he asks, knowing what Arthur's doing without having to look at the screen.  
   
"My Finnish isn't the best, but it looks like – " Arthur stops and his entire body goes tense as a bowstring. The mug in his hand trembles, then tips in increments, spilling a lazy pool of brown liquid that seeps into the dirty concrete. Eames can tell that Arthur doesn't even notice. Arthur has stopped breathing and is putting an effort into relaxing. It fails miserably. His lips are a thin, white line.  
   
Eames doesn't ask, just reads over Arthur's shoulder, and feels his stomach bottom out.  
   
"Hey, guys, what's for – " Ariadne stops in the middle of the cheerful greeting, walks closer and brings the fresh, green scent of her shower gel with her when she crouches next to them. "What's wrong?"  
   
She's calmer now than she was days ago; Eames would commend her for it if his heart wasn't trying to beat its way clean out of his chest. Both he and Arthur had been hoping to keep the full extent of her fuck-up from her a little longer, but it's too late. He swallows, tries to answer, but can't talk past the lump in his throat. He clears his throat, tries again, wills her to understand just what his next sentence means. "Saarela's dead."  
 

***

   
Ariadne's mug crashes to the ground; she should probably be glad the coffee's not scalding her bare feet, but right now, she can't think for the waves of guilt that wash over her. Suddenly she understands why Arthur flipped last night, seeing his reaction in a new light.  
   
Saarela's dead. The nerdy kid she'd finagled the program from, the guy she thought she'd keep safe by relieving him of the program – dead. Dead because she went off the plan, because she thought she was so damn clever.  
   
Ariadne's head rings with the memory of Arthur's words. "You opened Pandora's box." She might as well have pulled the trigger last night, could have shot Saarela herself. It couldn't have made her feel any worse than she feels now.  
   
Hands close around her upper arms, parting some of the haze that's settling around her. "There's nothing you can do now," Eames says.  
   
"He's dead, Eames," she whispers, and oh, God, saying it out loud makes her sick to her stomach. "Dead."  
   
Eames nods.  
   
"If I hadn't taken the program, if I hadn't – "  
   
"But you didn't. Feeling guilty won't bring him back to life."  
   
His words are like a whiplash and Ariadne sobers. Eames is not gentle, he's brutally honest. Is this what it means to be intelligence? Even ex-intelligence? Being cold enough to rationalise everything and not let it get close to you?  
   
"I killed him, Eames," she whispers, closing her eyes and sitting down hard on the bed when her legs buckle.  
   
The hands reaching for her now are gentler. "No. _They_ did."  
   
"But I – "  
   
"What ifs don't do you any good now. We're all in this."  
   
Ariadne shakes her head, wondering if they tortured Saarela before they killed him. She remembers his shy grin, the quick wit, the unfortunate haircut over kind eyes and the guilt tries to eat her up whole.  
   
"Hey." Arthur. "Hey, look at me." She opens her eyes to find him crouching next to Eames. Arthur reaches out a hand to brush her hair behind her ear. Ariadne flinches back.  
   
While these men, these killers had likely tortured Saarela, she'd – They had – She feels the burn between her legs and bolts upright, her hand pressed to her mouth.  
   
Over the sound of her own footsteps, she hears Arthur and Eames exchange a few words, then the warehouse door creaks as it opens and closes.  
   
She barely makes it to the bathroom before she vomits black coffee and bile.  
   
When she looks up at the mirror, the face she sees there looks unfamiliar. It's a killer's face.  
 

***

   
Damn it. The door screeches shut behind him and Arthur allows himself a moment to lean his head against the rusting metal. He'd seen the inevitable result last night when she'd presented the program to him, knew in that moment Saarela was a dead man. He'd just hoped that the clients wouldn't move this fast; that Ariadne wouldn't have to find out so soon.  
   
Arthur takes a deep breath and centres himself. What's done is done. He can't make her un-see, can't take her guilt away, he can just take her out of here and help her make amends.  
   
He has plans. He has backup plans. His damn backup plans have backup plans. It's all a matter of collecting enough data and analysing it before he decides which one he'll use.  
   
He dials a number he has committed to memory since the day he left Kyoto in Saito's private plane. The sun is high in the sky already, the glare hurts his eyes, and he squints. The night's rain has washed some of the dust away and the air smells fresh, but Arthur can't enjoy it, he's too intent on the phone leaving an imprint in his cheek. Nothing happens for the longest time, no connection, then finally, he gets a shrill sound that has him flinching. "Number unavailable."  
   
Arthur frowns and dials another number, glad that Saito trusted him enough to give him all his numbers, private or official. He gets a constant busy signal on the next number, a call centre on the third, and with each failed attempt, his heart beats harder against his ribs as he begins to realise just how fucked they are.  
   
The door to the warehouse creaks and he sees Eames and Ariadne step outside. He hangs up, opens his phone and takes out the SIM card, snaps the tiny piece of plastic in two.  
   
"What's wrong?" Eames asks.  
   
"I can't reach my contact," Arthur replies. He doesn't need to say anything else to make Eames understand and hopes his words won't make Ariadne suspicious. She doesn't need to know about Saito's involvement just now.  
   
Ariadne is pale and shaken, but she visibly straightens and pulls herself together, making Arthur wonder what Eames said to her inside. "How is that relevant?" She crosses her arms over her chest.  
   
"Saarela didn't know who we were. The guys who chased you in town might not know, either, but Arthur's employers do all too well. Arthur was referred to those employers by his contact. And now his contact unavailable?" Eames shakes his head. "Bit too much of a coincidence." He runs a hand through his hair. "We need to get out of here. Now."  
   
Arthur nods, but Ariadne shakes her head vehemently. "We can't run now, they'll be looking for us."  
   
"Precisely the reason we can't stay here."  
   
"We can lay low, wait until the worst blows over and run then."  
   
"Or we can hand the bullets to our firing squad," Eames snaps. "This isn't a discussion. Pack what you can't leave behind, burn everything else." He's in full clean-up mode now, and Arthur is stupidly glad that Eames used to play on their pursuers' team once. It might give them the only chance they have to get out of this alive. "Destroy your phone," Arthur says. "We're out of here in half an hour."  
  


	10. Burning Bridges

They get rid of the car in the afternoon, steal another one by the evening and make it to Helsinki overnight. Eames navigates and Ariadne drives while Arthur sleeps. Eames had insisted and when that hadn't worked, flat-out refused to let Arthur drive while he still hadn't caught up on his sleep. Ariadne had found herself agreeing. After all they've managed, all they've been through, having Arthur drive them into a wall because he fell asleep behind the wheel would be the worst sort of anticlimax.  
   
They'll take the ferry to St. Petersburg from Helsinki. The mysterious Katya has provided a way out since Arthur's escape plans all prove to be compromised.  
   
Now that every plan has gone to shit and they're on the run, Arthur's tension has given way to a blasé focus that baffles Ariadne. He's calmer than Eames. But, then, he's been on the run before; years of working beside Cobb meant he has experience staying ahead of the authorities. He has experience, she realises, which explains how he could nod off in the backseat of a stolen car like he hadn't a care in the world.  
   
Ariadne's still not sure she trusts this Katya woman she's never seen and Eames' reaction to her makes her feel justified in her mistrust, but it's the only chance they have now. Planes are out of the question, and they can't get to Russia without a new visa which would have meant another few days of waiting, of sitting still, of involving more people who could potentially rat them out.  
   
The ferry is a recent exception to the rule of visas: As long as you travel on a Russian passenger ship by sea, you get to stay in Russia for 72 hours without requiring a visa. It's perfect for them. Eames argued, though, and tried to persuade Arthur not to trust Katya, but Arthur's answer had been a firm, "We're paying her enough."  
   
Eventually, Ariadne will ask how much is enough, but not today. Today it's six in the morning and she's tired and stiff; the drive along unfamiliar streets proved to be more exhausting than she'd likes to admit. Deep down, Ariadne's grateful for the distraction of driving and concentrating on the road because if her mind has nothing to do, it takes her back to the café and Saarela time and again.  
   
She parks the car in a side street close to the ferry port and closes her eyes for a few moments. Arthur stirs in the backseat and Eames' hand falls heavy on her neck, rubbing his fingers along taut tendons. She sighs under her breath and tilts her head into the warmth of his hand. "You're hired."  
   
She rolls down the window and the cool, salty tang of sea air touches her face on a light breeze; it's accompanied by the low, wailing roar of ship's horns and the cries of seagulls.  
   
This is the one thing she missed the most in Paris. Growing up in Duluth, she spent hours and hours near the draw bridge, watching the ships roll in and out of the city's harbour, eating ice-cream on the boardwalk and listening to the seagulls. Flying trashcans, her dad had called them, just to watch her wrinkle her nose at him. To Ariadne, they've always been synonymous with large, open waters and freedom.  
   
She listens to the sounds of the harbour with her eyes closed, relaxes into the gentleness of Eames' hand and, for a moment, forgets they're on the run. She can fool herself, and this could just be a vacation, a summer trip to the ocean.  
   
A vacation with the two men she's slept with, the men she's bound to if she doesn't want to get killed or imprisoned for murder, the men –  
   
Eames glides his hand into her hair, disrupting her thought. "We'll have to make some changes." He sounds as though he regrets the mere idea.  
   
Ariadne breathes out, keeping her eyes closed as he strokes her hair. "I know."  
   
She knows it's necessary, without him even having to say what changes he means, but she's always hated changing her hair drastically. In a childish moment of fear, she hopes that he won't suggest cutting it short.  
   
Behind them, Arthur moves with a small groan. Ariadne turns to look at him, grateful for the distraction. She fights a smile. Something she's learned over the past few days is that Arthur is remarkably clumsy and uncoordinated once he's let his guard down around you. He blinks a couple of times, chasing the last remnants of sleep away, stretches ad promptly hits both hands against the car's ceiling and his knees against the passenger's seat.  
   
Ariadne takes Eames' hand, presses a kiss to the back of it and says, "How about we get him caffeinated before he damages the car some more?"  
   
They have breakfast on the pier. Or rather, just off the pier. The market at Pohjoisesplanadi is just beginning to set up its stalls, trucks roll in to unload crates of vegetables and fruit. A couple of smashed tomatoes and beans lie on the cobblestones, spilled from one of the crates. No one bothers to pick them up. No one notices Ariadne, Arthur, and Eames walking past, everyone's too intent in the stacking of items and ridding tents of puddles of water that have collected on the tarps during yesterday's thunderstorm. Water hits the cobblestones with a splash. Ariadne doesn't understand the language, but the yelp, curse and complaint as the water hits a man just walking past one of the tents is universal.  
   
Eames grins, the curse must have been inventive. Arthur closes his leather jacket against the morning's chill. Ariadne smoothes an out-of-place lock of hair behind his ear that's been bothering her since they left the car. Arthur rolls his eyes at her but pulls her in to kiss her temple, anyway. He smells of body-warm leather and sleep. His stomach also rumbles loud enough for Eames to raise an eyebrow at them both. Ariadne points at Arthur. "Wasn't me."  
   
The inviting scent of freshly brewed coffee guides them into the red brick-fronted Kauppahalli, the Helsinki Market Hall. It's too early still for all the shops to be open, but there's a bakery open at the end of the long rows of closed shop-fronts and the mingled scent of baked bread and coffee has Ariadne's mouth watering within seconds.  
   
They decide in favour of slices of rye bread slathered with quark and topped with fresh herbs, sweet _pulla_ , and several cups of the surprisingly good, strong coffee. Arthur reaches out to wipe a strip of quark from Eames' upper lip and Ariadne is once again struck by how easily these gestures come, how Arthur isn't' holding himself back any longer.  
   
Around them, around their bubble of breakfast smells and momentary peace, the market slowly wakes up. Voices filter in, heavy shutters get pulled up with squeaky rattling noises, doors are opened, and boxes set up on wooden tables.  
   
"The ferry leaves at 7 tonight," Arthur says after a while. He sets his mug down and slants a look at Ariadne. "We'll have to – "  
   
"I know," she interrupts him and straightens her shoulders. "I saw a hairdresser on the way here."  
   
He reaches out to touch her hair, winds a strand around his index finger. "I'm s – "  
   
Again, she interrupts him. "Don't. There's been enough of that." She catches his hand before he can pull it away. "But," she continues, "I'm taking Eames with me so I don't end up with a pink mohawk."  
   
Eames looks intrigued and she whacks the back of his head with Arthur's hand still in hers.  
   
Arthur pulls his hand back, the corners of his mouth twitch. "I wouldn't mind you in a pink mohawk, actually."  
   
"Give us something to work with, Arthur," Eames says before Ariadne can huff her annoyance and Arthur goes into business mode. He pulls out a passport that looks well-used, unlike what she had expected.  
   
The picture in it shows herself with raven-black hair, pulled back, strict. She remembers having that picture taken before a work-out session at the gym she joined in Paris. It was for the membership card. She throws a look at Arthur, wondering how the hell he managed to both find out about the gym and acquire the picture. After a couple of seconds, she stops wondering. It's what Arthur does, isn't it? It just feels weird to be at the centre of his thorough research.  
   
He's had the picture altered, the background changed, her hair and eye colour changed as well. He photoshopped sophisticated looking glasses onto her. The change is remarkable.  
   
"Enough to go with?" Arthur asks.  
   
Eames nods. "Plenty."  
   
Arthur brushes flour off his hands and moves to slide from the bar stool. "Then you go and turn Ariadne into Tricia Todaro and I'll get the equipment to turn you into an invalid."  
   
He's gone before Ariadne can ask what the hell he means.  
   
"Come, Mrs. Todaro," Eames says and lifts her from the bar stool to gently set her on the ground. "I'll tell you on the way."  
   
"Mrs.?"  
   
Eames laughs.  
 

***

   
The ship moves gently, sways up and down. It should be calming, hell, in the cabin they have, he shouldn't even feel anything, but Eames feels queasy as all hell and he curses Katya once again. Damn her for combining their escape route with a last practical joke on him. She knows about his disposition to seasickness. The heavy cast on his leg makes moving without Arthur or Ariadne's help impossible, at least if he wants to keep up the disguise so he holds his face into the breeze coming through the open window, breathes against the nausea climbing steadily, swallows the salty saliva pooling under his tongue, and hopes he doesn't look as green in the face as he feels.  
   
Ariadne sleeps curled against Arthur, her hair now black, slicked back and tied into a dancer's bun. The Snow-white analogy is far too easy to make as she sleeps on the starched, crisp white sheets of the too soft bed. She hides her feelings remarkably well, but the guilt she's feeling over Saarela's death follows her like a shadow.  
   
Arthur's sleep is light, he wakes the instant Eames moves and draws the curtain to keep a bright ray of light from hitting Ariadne's face and waking her.  
   
Eames smiles brightly, hopes to cover enough of his problem to fool Arthur. But Arthur's not an idiot, is he? He narrows his eyes and looks right through Eames with an unnerving precision.  
   
"I'd get you something from the infirmary, but – "  
   
"That'd compromise the alias, I know."  
   
"Why didn't you say something?"  
   
"Would you have?"  
   
Arthur ponders this for a while, then inclines his head while running a fingertip over Ariadne's knuckles. "Good point."  
   
"Where do we go from here, Eames?"  
   
It's a rhetorical question, Eames thinks, because he knows Arthur always has a plan, but the longer he looks at Arthur avoiding his gaze, the more he thinks that Arthur isn't asking about directions on a map.  
   
"Wherever we want, I guess." He shrugs. "You've tried to upload the program key in Seinäjoki. You'll make it go live once we hit St. Petersburg." Eames shifts a little on the chair and looks out the window when the ship sways. "As soon as we turn on some news that aren't Russian-censored, we should find out that the world knows the program exists. They won't have any more reason to hunt us." They're all facts Arthur knows already, because they talked about them and they're immanent, but Arthur appears to take comfort in hearing them. And Eames? Well, it's enough when one of them feels miserable. Sometimes he's just gracious that way.  
   
"First place to go," Eames says with a wistful sigh, "will be anywhere but on a bloody ship."  
   
Arthur twitches a grin. Eames notices that the set of his shoulder is a little less tense.  
   
"Give me your hand," Arthur says.  
   
"Why, would you like to hold it and play nurse?" Eames waggles his eyebrows.  
   
Arthur doesn't answer, just raises his eyebrow and snaps his fingers.  
   
Eames obliges with a huff. The movement makes his stomach revolt and he breathes against the fresh wave of nausea.  
   
On the bed, Arthur sits up a little and moves away from Ariadne. He reaches for Eames' hand and glides his long fingers under the cuff of Eames' shirt. He opens the button and pushes the shirt-sleeve up. Arthur's fingertips are firm but gentle, they stir the hair on Eames' forearm.  
   
"What – "  
   
"Neiguan P6," Arthur answers. "Now shut up and let me work."  
   
He measures two finger-breadth, sets his thumb to a spot in the middle of Eames' underarm and presses down hard.  
   
"Yes, dear," Eames replies, but shuts up after, because whatever Arthur's doing, whatever acupressure point he's hitting, it works.  
   
When Arthur lets go after a few minutes, Eames can breathe normally again, his stomach has settled and he no longer feels dizzy. It's like being reborn. "You're rather handy to have around," he comments, his gaze firmly fixed on Arthur's. "Can I keep you?"  
   
Arthur ducks his head, busies himself with a wrinkle on his shirt-sleeve. "Shut up."  
   
There's a faint bit of colour in his cheeks that Eames finds endearing.  
 

***

   
Ariadne slips out onto the deck while Arthur gets dinner and Eames takes a shower. The air outside is salty, crisp and clean. What's loose of Ariadne's hair flies as soon as she sets foot outside and she's glad that it's tied back and gelled as much as it is or it would be a giant mess. There are barely any people out on the deck at this time at night and she's glad. Her face is still on the news and all it takes is one person to look a little more closely and she'll be in real trouble. Arthur and Eames reassured her, though, that no one on a ferry like this looks that closely. People are way too busy gambling away their money at the slot machines.  
   
Ariadne thinks of the way a huge migration wave toward the Nemo Casino started as soon as the ferry had reached open waters and is inclined to agree.  
   
Still.  
   
Now that she's alone for the first time in over a week, the enormity of everything that's happened in that week accosts her with a vengeance. She's a fugitive now. Her face is on Finnish television as that of a killer. She's accused of Saarela's murder. Poor, sweet Ari-Pekka. She's left her identity behind, has given herself completely into the hands of Eames and Arthur. The fact that she's had sex with them both almost blends into the background – only almost, because she still is sore and she remembers their lips and hands on her skin all too well. But her mind keeps tripping over her fugitive status, goes to pictures of high security prisons she's seen on TV, remembers her parents talking about Guantanamo and Cobb looking haunted, she remembers running in Seinäjoki, the gun pressed against her back at the library, the bullets whizzing around her at the internet café... Ariadne takes a gulping breath of air and rests her forehead against the cold railing. Underneath her, the spray of the waves splashes white against the ship's hull and she stares into the dark water behind it.  
   
This is what she asked for, isn't it? After the Fischer job, Paris had bored her and going back to the States had seemed out of the question. She wanted for a more interesting life. Now she remembers the Chinese curse and wonders if she jinxed herself.  
   
Her hands close around the railing and she straightens. Enough whining. Enough feeling sorry for herself. It won't get her anywhere. Arthur will make the program public this afternoon after they leave the ferry. They'll be safe then. They'll have made sure Saarela's wish is fulfilled. It won't make him alive again, and his death will never stop haunting her, but she'll at least know they'll have done right by him. As long as she stays out of Finland, she'll be fine. Now all she has to do is figure out what the hell to tell her family and what to do with the rest of her life.  
   
Easy. Real easy.  
   
She beats her head against the railing with a hollow plonk.  
 

***

   
Arthur's phone vibrates when the sun just peeks over the horizon after a too short time of semi-darkness between three and four in the morning. He hasn't slept much and the gentle buzzing, the way the phone moves on the nightstand with the vibration has him bright awake within seconds.  
   
Eames and Ariadne are still asleep, Ariadne's head tucked against Eames' back so that it looks as though she's spooning around him. Arthur smiles, but pulls his hand, already reaching out to touch them both, back and gets his phone instead.  
   
He slips from the cabin quietly and walks outside on deck into the cool, diesel-exhaust filled morning air. He can't see land yet, just the sea around them, stretching flat and leaden in the dawn.  
   
"Yes?"  
   
"Took you a while, _dorogoy_ ," a low, female voice says and Arthur doesn't need the term of endearment to recognise who's speaking. She's one of the few people who have this new number. "Busy with Eames and your little lady friend?"  
   
Arthur rolls his shoulders against the urge to tell her to shut up. Something in his back pops, he bites back on a groan. "Checking on us so soon, Katya?"  
   
"Just protecting my investment," she replies. "I simply want to make sure you're well and safe." It's a little too light-hearted and a little too carefully worded to be as coincidental and as easygoing as it sounds.  
   
"A social call?" Arthur frowns. "How very unlike you."  
   
"You've been spending too much time with Eames. Don't believe everything he tells you."  
   
Arthur has a feeling that he'd do better to believe more, not less.  
   
"Where are you now?" Katya asks. Arthur hears the sound of cars going past, a siren howling in the background.  
   
"On the ship."  
   
Katya huffs. "Shockingly, I figured as much. Where exactly?"  
   
"Three hours out," Arthur lies as he looks at his watch. They have an hour left, and he knows that Katya knows.  
   
Her low chuckle glides through the phone line and straight under his skin. "In that case you have plenty of time to prepare a clean getaway."  
   
Arthur's stomach plummets to his feet. He hates it when Eames is right. He keeps his voice level, though. "I wasn't aware we needed one."  
   
A long exhalation. She's smoking a cigarette. "You are now, _lyubimyy_."  
   
Fuck. He grabs the phone tighter, feels his teeth clench. "I wonder who could have told them where we were?"  
   
" _Solnyshko_ ," Katya says and her voice sounds gently amused. "I gave you a head start, didn't I?"  
   
She hangs up without another word and that, like the heads-up, is a kindness, because Arthur would have demanded to know more, would have demanded answers when they really don't have the time to stand around and talk.  
   
His heart beats faster and it's hard to bite back on the need to shout in frustration. Cross and cross and double-cross. He _really_ hates it when Eames is right. This just isn't his god damn month.  
 

***

   
"Change your hair." Arthur walks into the cabin, the set of his shoulders tense and his face blank, his voice clipped. "Eames, get her the red wig."  
   
"Good morning to you, too, sunshine," Ariadne says as she lifts her head from the pillow, a little annoyed at his tone. She'd thought they were past him ordering her around.  
   
"Do it." To Eames, Arthur says, "Lose the cast." He doesn't look at them, moves to a duffel bag and gets out a fresh set of clothing, jeans and a washed out t-shirt and hoodie.  
   
Ariadne narrows her eyes and scrambles to sit upright. Something in the way Arthur moves, precise and clipped, tells her that this isn't a game. "What's wrong?"  
   
He doesn't answer.  
   
"Arthur?" Eames sounds demanding and more than a little worried.  
   
"We've been made," is all Arthur answers, as though it's the most normal thing in the world. He takes off his suit jacket and stuffs it in a plastic bag. Ariadne's brain stutters for a few seconds, hung up on the part where they've been found, where they're not safe, _again_. The safe bubble she'd thought they were in bursts with a soundless plop.  
   
Arthur gets as far as stuffing his dress shirt into the bag before Eames, who has finally hobbled around the bed, stops him. Ariadne sees Arthur's skin turn white where Eames fingers press into his bare upper arms. "How do you know?"  
   
"I had a call."  
   
"Katya." Eames spits out the word as though it's poison.  
   
Arthur nods, extricates himself from Eames, and slides out of his pants. This could be a moment to appreciate the long, lean lines of Arthur's body, but Ariadne's far from it.  
   
"Why the hell do you even still talk to the traitorous bitch?"  
   
Arthur looks up from the duffel bag. "It's business, Eames. Harbouring grudges is unprofessional."  
   
"Harbouring – " Eames looks like he's about to have an aneurysm. He turns to Ariadne, his lips in a thin, white line. "Give me a knife."  
   
She can't help her eyes from widening, she's never seen him this furious before. For a crazy moment, she thinks –  
   
"I'm not going to kill him, though God knows I want to right now." He snaps his fingers at her when she still doesn't move. "Just give me the damn knife so I can get rid of this damn cast and bash Arthur's head in with it."  
   
She throws him the pocket knife and has just enough time to see Arthur twitch a grin, one that she's sure it is a good thing Eames didn't see.  
   
In the time it takes Eames to cut through the bandages that hold the half-cast together, she moves to tie her hair back and reach for the suitcase she knows contains Eames' vast array of disguises. When she'd first seen it, she'd thought him paranoid and over-cautious; after all, they were safe using new identities. But now? She's grateful for his paranoia.  
   
Ariadne picks the smooth auburn bob wig and gets ready for the impossible task of stuffing her long hair underneath without having it look as though she's wearing a turban.  
   
Eames is out of the cast by the time she has finally stuffed the final strands underneath the too-tight wig. It already itches on her scalp and she sends a quick prayer that she won't have to wear it for too long.  
   
"How did she know?" Eames demands, back in front of Arthur, the cast still in hand. For a moment, Ariadne wants to laugh, because it really does look as though Eames is ready to brandish the cast like a bat. The look on his face stops her, though. She doesn't think she's ever seen Eames this livid before, this unhinged. It unsettles her more than Arthur's meltdown did after the shoot-out, more than Arthur's cool demeanour now or the recent news.  
   
"How did she know, Arthur?"  
   
Arthur finishes buttoning the jeans before he looks Eames directly in the face and says, matter of factly, "Because she sold us out to them."  
   
Ariadne stops breathing. She waits. A beat. Another. Watching Eames is like waiting for lightning to strike. The air crackles.  
   
Eames lets go of the cast, pushes Arthur against the nearest wall instead with a painful shove. "How the hell can you trust a single word she's saying? I warned you she couldn't be trusted. I told you she'd sell us to the highest bidder." Eames fists are clenched at his side and Ariadne calculates her chances of stopping him if he starts laying into Arthur. "How do you know she's not sending us straight into an ambush?" He's yelling now, his accent turning clear and crisp and horribly precise.  
   
Ariadne realises that the only times she's ever seen Eames lose his amused indifference, his calm, is when it's about this woman, Katya. It makes her wonder if Eames is overreacting or if Arthur is overconfident. She doesn't like either option.  
   
Ariadne looks between them, feeling as though she's watching the world's most loaded tennis match. Maybe one using grenades instead of balls. It's easier than thinking about what Arthur just revealed. Just a question of when the pin's going to come out.  
   
"Indoor voice, Eames," Arthur chides, and Ariadne wonders if he's lost his mind. Is he trying to make Eames punch him? And is she seeing things or is Arthur getting calmer the more agitated Eames gets? Is there an undisclosed law of conservation of agitation?  
   
"How do you know?" Eames repeats, his hands now crossed over his chest in an obvious attempt to stop himself from hitting Arthur. She sees his knuckles turn white, his jaw tense from the effort of holding back.  
   
Arthur – bastard, iceberg-cool Arthur – actually rolls his eyes. "Because she'd already been paid or she wouldn't have called and I didn't tell her where we planned on going now. Get a hold of yourself, Eames. What kind of a beginner do you take me for?"  
   
Ariadne has just enough time to pull Eames back before he really does lash out. He shakes her off roughly. "It's not just you getting screwed over by her," Eames shouts at Arthur, "it's all of us."  
   
Arthur narrows his eyes, and understanding begins to dawn in Ariadne as well. This isn't just about a personal grudge.  
   
"I have it under control," Arthur says, a lot gentler now.  
   
Eames gives a derisive snort.  
   
"I do," Arthur says, sincere. "Have some faith."  
   
This time, Eames really does lash out. It's for show, though, and Arthur grins while he dances away from Eames' fist. It's not an amused grin.  
 

***

   
Getting off the ferry in a different disguise is, once again, laughably easy. Eames is surprised every time, though, at how easily people are fooled, how willing they are to believe, or just how careless supposed security can be. Russia should be different, especially with the 72-hour visa-free rule now, but it's not. Sure they make them all sign their names on a list, verify the passports, but no one double-checks the ferry's passenger manifesto to find out that three people have gone missing and three new ones have appeared. It'll get noticed sooner or later, but late enough for them to be out of St. Petersburg by then.  
   
Or at least, that's what Eames hopes. The airport is out of the question. If Katya has ratted them out – and Eames has no illusions that she hasn't, the bounty was too good to pass by – then security will be on the lookout and they won't have a chance to do the same thing they did on the ferry. They'll have all the internet cafés and public Wi-Fi access points as well as libraries watched by hackers; Eames doesn't share Arthur's hope for getting the decryption program uploaded here.  
   
Even getting out of the city will be difficult enough. Eames doesn't have the means to change their faces beyond recognition, not with the meagre supplies he has with him. And if the Russian underworld is out looking for them, buying supplies won't go unnoticed, either. So all that's out, which leaves the traditional way.  
   
They won't get too far by car, not in a country as large as Russia, but right now, all they need is to get out of St. Petersburg and to Moscow. Buses or trains, especially the super-fast _Sapsan_ that would have been so convenient, are out, as they require personalised tickets and passports with visas as well. Passports they're sorely lacking, because Eames is sure that all the names in his supply are burnt.  
   
Once they've made it to Moscow, Eames has decided to do the unexpected thing, because Katya thinks – he never corrected her assumption – that he dislikes slow and uncomfortable travel. It leaves them with the slowest, most low-key and thus best option: Third class seats on the Trans Siberian. That is, if he can acquire them new passports and new visas.  
   
There are few trustworthy people who can help. Sure, there are several good, even excellent fake papermakers, but they're all greedy little bastards, and would sell them to the first person who offered them a higher price than Eames does. His other contacts are outside of Russia, small, rundown businesses that still know what honour among thieves means. But South Korea is a little out of the way, as is Venezuela.  
   
That leaves him with two options. One would be Katya, and, no, oh, hell, no.  
   
The other one, Arthur's going to hate, but frankly, Eames couldn't care less. When it comes to espionage and the alphabet agencies, he knows he has more experience than Arthur does.  
   
Only one person has never let Eames down and he trusts her with his life. She's the one person who will be royally pissed when she hears from him too.  
   
Strangely enough, Eames looks forward to being chewed out. It'll be just like the old days.  
   
He grins to himself as he receives the rental car paperwork from the bored-looking woman behind the ticket-counter. With the current burnt passports and fake visa, he knows they'll be traceable. Eames gives the clerk the wrong destination with an amicable smile. For a while at least, it'll throw their pursuers off. In the meantime, he knows what Arthur will think about his plan, so he doesn't tell him about it, nor about the transportation choice and his means to get new passports for all three of them. No one in their right mind would choose a means of transportation so slow for a quick getaway. No one in their right mind would ask a friend for the favour he's going to.  
   
Which just proves that Eames hasn't been in his right mind for a while now.  
 

***

   
Moscow at night is a thing of downright painful beauty when you see it for the first time. The Kremlin's colours are even more impressive against a dark night sky and the Red Square isn't overrun by tourists, giving you the time to admire the fragile beauty of the architecture. Eames lets Ariadne look her fill and gestures to Arthur to stay with her while Eames walks around a corner to make a phone call.  
   
"Dream of my sleepless – "  
   
"Shut it," the female voice interrupts him with an audible eyeroll, "and tell me what you want." A pause in which he barely has the time to take a breath. "And, Eames, this had better be good, or I will get very creative in my revenge."  
   
And she will. Eames knows she's not kidding. "I need your help, Suz." During the drive to Moscow, he debated for a long time whether or not to actually call her and ask her for that one favour that might be too big. But they're out of options, and if the choice is between Katya and Suz, there is no choice for Eames.  
   
"Whom did you piss of this time?" She knows fully well, but he knows she wants him to say it.  
   
"I didn't," Eames says. For once, it's true.  
   
"And then your arse fell off," Suz comments dryly and Eames has a hard time not bursting into laughter. God, he's missed her. There's a sound in the background, a sleepy, gruff voice asking a mumbled question. Everything is muffled suddenly, Suz has put a hand over the phone, but Eames still hears the subdued, Gaelic words telling her husband to go back to sleep.  
   
"Did I wake you?" Eames goes for an apologetic tone of voice.  
   
"No, I never sleep, anyway," she retorts and he feels bad instantly. It's two o'clock in the morning. He knows how little sleep she usually gets. "Smart arse. Of course you did."  
   
"Sorry."  
   
"You will be if you don't start talking sense." He hears a door squeak closed, imagines her padding barefoot into the kitchen, the lights still off, her feet sinking into the thick carpet of the corridor. "What do you want, Eames?"  
   
Normally, he'd trade some more banter with her, but this isn't the time. "Passports for three. Russian visas. By tomorrow."  
   
There's a short silence, then another door squeaks shut and Suz says, louder and wholly unamused, "And you call to ask me? Are you completely off your rocker?"  
   
"No news there," Eames replies. He doesn't smile.  
   
"How many agencies do you have on your tail now? And you've been working with Ertaeva again? Really?"  
   
"You have your ears out. Don't tell me you don't already know."  
   
He imagines her running a hand through her hair. "You realise this could cost me my job and my security clearance and have me arrested for treason?"  
   
Eames keeps his voice light. "Then you never should have stayed in touch in the first place."  
   
"Rat bastard."  
   
Eames waits, gives her the time to come to the decision he knew she'd make before he called her.  
   
"Fine." It sounds angry, as though spoken between clenched teeth.  
   
"Thank y – "  
   
"Before you say anything else, let me make this clear: I call the shots, I pick the aliases, and you will not complain."  
   
Eames nods. "Would I ever?"  
   
The resounding silence is answer enough.  
   
"All right. All right."  
   
"I will get them to you by tomorrow, but know one thing, Eames." The pause is ominous, he hopes to God she won't say what he fears she will. But she does. "This will be the last favour you ever get to call in." Eames' stomach drops. Her tone is serious, she's not joking this time. "And this time, you owe me. I get to call in favours whenever I want and whatever I want. Are we clear?"  
   
"As mud."  
   
He hears her breathing for a while. "God damn it, Eames."  
   
He doesn't reply; she doesn't expect him to.  
   
Eventually, after he's listened to the silence between them for what feels like a century, he asks, "See you tomorrow?"  
   
" _Komsomolskaya_ station, noon," she answers. "I'll find you."  
   
"You always do."  
   
She doesn't say goodbye, the lines goes dead with a click.  
   
Eames is glad neither Arthur nor Ariadne ask any questions when he returns to them. Moscow's beauty is lost on him.  
 

***

   
Walking toward _Komsomolskaya_ station brings an odd feeling of déjà vu. Moscow is still hot as fuck, temperatures reaching the upper 30s Celsius even at night. Arthur's relieved to find that at least the smoke is gone. He hasn't had a chance to follow the news as meticulously as he usually does, but from the occasional look at a newspaper stand, apparently the forest and swamp fires around the city are contained.  
   
The station itself is stunning beyond belief, more like a ballroom than a train station, with its high vaulted ceiling, stucco, frescos and chandeliers, but Ariadne no longer looks as interested in the architecture as she did the first time they set foot in it. She's tense and uneasy, Arthur knows she's running on too little sleep and too much coffee, just like Eames and he, but the jittery attitude clashes with her hippie-esque outfit.  
   
"Remind me again what we're doing here?" she asks, thrumming her fingertips against her right leg.  
   
"Picking up the new passports," Arthur explains patiently as he pulls her out of the stream of people rushing to get to their trains.  
   
"The ones delivered by Eames' contact. Whom you've never seen before. Who's working for British intelligence, which, oh, by the way, is looking for Eames all over the place." She crosses her arms over her chest. "Really, this plan is just so flawless."  
   
Arthur feels his hackles going up, both because of her attitude and because he shares her damn doubts but can't tell her that. "I trust Eames," he states.  
   
Ariadne sucks in a breath to reply, but visibly swallows the words. "Fine." He can see that it takes an effort, but she relaxes. "It's not like I have a better plan, right?"  
   
A grin flickers over Arthur's face. He likes her self-awareness, her capability to see when she's behaving irrationally. He takes her hand and squeezes it. "I really don't think smuggling us all out of the country as exotic dancers on a private plane would have worked all that well. I mean, me and Eames, maybe, but you really need to work on your dance-moves – "  
   
She swats him, laughing. "Idiot."  
   
"Who told you you could start without me?" Eames suddenly appears from a group of commuters.  
   
"Who told you you were in command?"  
   
"Well, I'm the brains of this outfit, Arthur's the looks, and you – " Eames looks Ariadne up and down, mischief lurking in the corners of his mouth, "You're obviously the muscle."  
   
Ariadne punches Eames in the arm as well. "Small and mean, and don't you forget it."  
   
A voice interrupts them suddenly, a harsh Russian command announcing the owner as police, ordering them to stay and not move and Arthur tenses so much his muscles seem to ring with it. Fuck. Fuck it all to hell, they've made it this far this just can't be happening now. Not here, not now. White hot fury at Katya wants to explode in his chest but he reigns it in brutally. Beside him, Ariadne pales and Eames... Eames starts to chuckle. First just a little, then it turns to a full belly laugh and Arthur wonders if Eames has lost his mind. He turns to look at him, sees tears of mirth pooling in Eames' eyes.  
   
"It's good to see you, my little jock," Eames says to the uniformed police officer, a large-boned woman with bright red hair and a thousand freckles. "Arthur, Ariadne," he gestures toward the woman, "meet Suz."  
 

***

   
"Not that I don't love the disguise, but you do know that you could get into one hell of a lot of trouble impersonating a police officer here, right?" Eames asks.  
   
Suz raises a brow. "How is that any more dangerous than you impersonating a man?" Her accent is a heavy Scottish brogue.  
   
Ariadne gapes for a moment before she begins to snigger. Touché. Eames' contact is as tall as Eames, compact, in her mid-forties with first grey hairs streaking the bright red hair and her face sports more freckles than Ariadne has ever seen, spanning a large nose and strong, broad cheekbones. Ariadne has no doubt Suz can kick Eames ass from here to Sunday. Probably has, in the past.  
   
Watching Eames and Suz is fascinating, there's a dynamic there she's not seen even between Eames and Arthur. There's history between them, a lot of history, and a genuine, bone-deep fondness.  
   
"Don't stare, little one, it's not polite," Suz chides Ariadne, and her accent, now that she's not talking to Eames, is a crisp clean Queen's English and some of the initial sympathy bonus flies right out the window. Fuck her. What does this woman take her for, an idiot child? Just because she has history with Eames and is two heads taller than Ariadne doesn't mean that she has the right to –  
   
Eames gaze flickers to Ariadne, he shakes his head. Don't bother, the look says.  
   
Ariadne plasters a smile on her face and suppresses a scowl.  
   
"So this is your merry group of criminals?" Suz gives both Arthur and Ariadne a long once-over that has Ariadne's hackles going up yet again. "Cradle-robbing, hm, Eames? Since when do you go for the baby-faces?"  
   
Damn that woman to he –  
   
"Since the elderly ladies were off the menu," Eames counters, not missing a beat. He pulls Ariadne against him and presses a quick kiss to her temple "Do you have them, Suz?"  
   
"What, your passports?" She shakes her head. "Eames, Eames. You owe me a little more of the story. Most of all I think _you_ ," Suz turns to Arthur, "owe me an explanation of how you got him into this mess." She nods toward Ariadne. "Her as well. Alone, Eames can take care of himself, but you and me know that he's too damn loyal to just leave your sorry arse behind and too damn chivalrous to leave Alice in Wonderland here, don't we?"  
   
 _Fuck you and your confidence_ , Ariadne thinks, loudly. _Just fuck you_.  
   
Suz smiles at her. "You can say it out loud, love, I'm used to it."  
   
Ariadne gives her the middle finger. Eames rolls his eyes.  
   
Suz' smile grows wider. "As amusing as this is, it doesn't answer my question."  
   
"Which question was that again?" Ariadne asks, waspish. "I think it got lost in the insults."  
   
"He heard me." She angles her body toward Arthur; her face is thoughtful, her look furtive. "It can't just be the looks. My Eames doesn't just fall for a pretty face."  
   
" _Your Eames_ is standing right here and can tell you – "  
   
"Drop dead there for a moment, Eames," she interrupts him and Eames actually snaps his mouth shut. Ariadne blinks.  
   
"Rumour has it you're the best in the business. So tell me, Arthur, how did you fuck this whole thing up so spectacularly?"  
   
Next to her, Arthur has gone very quiet, his face distant. His jaw, however, works, and Ariadne sees him clench his teeth.  
   
"You have, what, the Russian underworld, half the illegal dreamshare, Finnish, American and Japanese intelligence agencies all on your tail on your very first solo gig?" She shakes her head. "Not going so well without a boss, is it?"  
   
Arthur rolls his shoulders and clenches his teeth even tighter. A vein at his temple pulses.  
   
Fuck, she's not going to watch this any longer. If Eames is under this woman's spell and Arthur won't defend himself, Ariadne will. "Are you going to let her just stomp all over you?" she hisses at Arthur. "Arthur, come on!"  
   
Arthur drops his shoulder, raises his head and looks straight at Suz. "She's right," he says.  
   
"What?"  
   
"She's right," Arthur repeats, and Ariadne can see how much it costs him to admit it.  
   
Suz lifts the cap off her head and scratches just underneath the edge before she puts it back on. "I do like honesty," she says, foregoing the gloating Ariadne would have expected. "So just tell me one more thing – who got this whole thing rolling?"  
   
There's a moment's pause, Arthur hesitates. "Saito," he eventually answers and once more, Ariadne feels like gasping, because no one mentioned Saito to her before this.  
   
"The big fish Japanese businessman who disappeared a week ago?" Suz asks.  
   
Arthur goes deathly pale. "What?"  
   
"He did what?" Eames chimes in as well, his physical presence radiating tension to Ariadne's left.  
   
"I forget you haven't been in the loop," Suz says. She pulls them out of the path of a group of people walking in their direction. Once they're in a more sheltered corner, once again away from cameras and prying ears, she continues, "Saito's company took a nose-dive in the stock markets about a fortnight ago. Nine days ago, he disappeared. No one has seen him or heard from him since, he's completely off the grid."  
   
Arthur looks to Eames and there is such naked panic flickering there for a moment that, combined with the idea of Saito being dead, Ariadne feels as though somebody's pulled a rug from under her feet.  
   
A warm, strong hand lands on Ariadne's shoulder. "If he were dead, we'd know about it," Suz says, and it's not longer cold or aloof. She must know about their connection to Saito. Ariadne shakes the hand off nevertheless. "Suit yourself," Suz says and gets out a notepad and a pen. The pad is thicker than it should be. Larger, too. The passports. Ariadne's heart beats a little quicker. This is their chance to get out of here, finally.  
   
"I got you visas as well," Suz says as she hands the notepad to Eames. He doesn't check the passports, but seems to hold a silent conversation with Arthur, who shakes his head.  
   
"Listen, I know this is a big favour to ask, but – "  
   
"No." The word is quiet but cutting. "I told you this is the last favour. You're out of things to offer, Eames."  
   
"Eames, are you – " Arthur begins, but Eames shuts him up with a sharp look.  
   
"Suz." His voice is mollifying, gentle. Pleading.  
   
"I said no." She turns away from Eames.  
   
"What the hell are you talking about?" Ariadne demands.  
   
Eames ignores her, his gaze fixed on his former colleague. "This could be leverage in case anyone finds out about you delivering passports to wanted fugitives."  
   
Suz whips around, her face dangerously calm. Her physical presence alone is intimidating, Ariadne has no doubts she'd be able to kick Eames' ass should it come to a hand-to-hand match. "Please tell me you're not trying to blackmail me." She looks Eames up and down. "Please, for old times sakes, tell me you did not even think of trying."  
   
"Eames, no." Arthur clamps his hand around Eames' upper arm, puts himself between Suz and Eames. "I'm not giving her the program. I'm not handing over the only thing that might still keep us alive. Not to someone we barely know."  
   
" _I_ know her," Eames states.  
   
"You knew Katya as well," Ariadne spits, because damn it, she's had enough if this. Why is Eames even considering this madness? How is this situation any different?  
   
Suz turns to her, her brow raised. "Little one, you get points for brains, but if you liken me to that traitorous skank again, I'll break your pretty face."  
   
Eames isn't even hearing this, won't call his former colleague on her crap; he's in a heated argument with Arthur, one Ariadne only catches subdued single words of. So Ariadne swallows a white hot ball of rage, takes a deep breath, smiles and says, "The name's Ariadne, and I'd like to see you try."  
   
Suz gives her a long once-over, then breaks into an honest smile. "This one has potential. I like her." The smile slips from her face as she slants a look at Eames who has just shaken off Arthur's hand. "But you don't need to worry, little one, because I'm not available for this."  
   
"They're hunting us," Eames says.  
   
"Eames," Arthur warns.  
   
"How is that any different from the past few years?"  
   
"This could change the world."  
   
"Eames!" Arthur's voice is cutting now.  
   
Suz laughs, unamused. She completely ignores the argument between Arthur and Eames. "Eames, please. You and I both know that I gave up on idealism a long time ago."  
   
"It's not idealism, it's a strategic asset."  
   
"Eames, for fuck's sake, I said – "  
   
Eames slants a heated gaze at Arthur. "Shut up, Arthur. Just shut the fuck up."  
   
To Ariadne's utter astonishment, Arthur actually does. She feels like slapping him for it.  
   
"The answer is still no."  
   
"It could earn you a promotion."  
   
"I'm happy where I am."  
   
Eames rakes both hands through his hair, and Ariadne can't help but think that she's never seen him this desperate before. "Suz, they'll kill us. They'll kill me."  
   
"It was bound to happen sooner or later," comes the reply, but even Ariadne can see that it's hollow, that the other woman doesn't mean it.  
   
"Suz, please."  
   
"Give me one good reason why we should give it to her, Eames," Arthur says, his voice calm and flat again. "Just one. Why are we supposed to trust her?"  
   
Eames look between Suz and Arthur and opens his mouth, but Ariadne beats him to it, the sudden realisation hitting her hard. The sound of her voice surprises her when she realises she speaks out loud. "Because we have a better chance with her than without her."  
   
It's nothing Arthur couldn't have come up with on his own, but it appears as though he pushed the thought aside. His face looks as though he just bit into mouldy bread but he doesn't disagree.  
   
Eames fishes for something in his pocket. He receives one last, sharp look from Arthur. "Are you sure about this?"  
   
Eames nods. "I trust her with my life."  
   
Suz snorts, then holds out her hand, moving her middle finger in a come-hither motion. "Give it to me."  
   
Eames hands over the flashdrive without fanfare.  
   
She regards it for a long time, turns it in her hand. "A copy, I presume?"  
   
Arthur nods, looking as though the movement costs him a lot. Of course it's a copy. Arthur would never hand over the original flashdrive.  
   
Eventually, Suz closes her hand around the flashdrive and turns toward Eames again. "You don't ask any more favours," Suz says, and her voice is flat; she's stating demands, no, facts, not suggestions. "You don't write, you don't call." The gaze she fixes Eames with is cold, but only on the surface. Lurking underneath is bone-deep regret.  
   
Ariadne sees Eames grow pale as he nods, wordless.  
   
"From the moment the program's up, you're dead to me."  
   
The look on Eames' face tells Ariadne that he expected this, but had hoped that it wouldn't come to pass. They're burning bridges left and right, Ariadne thinks. She both hates it and is selfishly glad that she's not the only one giving up almost everything she holds dear.  
   
The sound of Eames' voice, gentle, honest, shakes her from her contemplation. "I'll miss you," Eames says simply, reaches for Suz hand and presses a kiss against her knuckles.  
   
"Can it, ya bas," she replies, her Scottish accent coming through at full force. "Just bloody can it." She pulls Eames into a fierce hug. "I hate you."  
   
"No, you don't," Eames answers, his voice rough in a way Ariadne hasn't heard before and she thinks she sees his eyes well up.  
   
Suz lets go before they can attract too much attention. She straightens and addresses Arthur and Ariadne with a look that's all authority again. "You two watch out for him, you hear me? Because I _will_ find you."  
   
Ariadne nods; she doesn't doubt it. She looks to Arthur, sees him nod as well and is surprised to find Suz giving an approximation of a smile in return.  
   
It vanishes when she turns to Eames one last time and says: "Goodbye, Frederick."  
 

***

   
Arthur looks at the picture in the newly acquired passports and fights a sigh. The picture Eames' contact in the MI-6 found of him is eight years old and right before it had been taken, he'd come from the hairdresser in order to have a truly spectacular neon-green Mohawk shorn off. Of course Eames' contact would find exactly that picture and use it for the new passport.  
   
They're hiding in a currently empty room in a run-down Kommunalka, getting ready for the journey on the train. Eames is out getting them a fresh set of clothes. Getting ready also means that Arthur has to resemble the kid in the picture.  
   
He clenches his right hand around the electric razor, switches it on and guides it up to his forehead, rests it there for a moment and feels it buzzing against his skin. It's a stupid thing to hesitate. It's just hair, it'll grow back. Nevertheless, he lets the razor sink. Just a little longer. There are things he needs to consider, lists he needs to tick off, even if they're just in his head.  
   
Cut hair, change clothes, get supplies, cover tracks, arrange for a passage across the Chinese border, find a way to contact Saito. He clamps down on the reaction that's trying to surface when he thinks about what Eames' contact had said. Not now. He needs more lists. Making lists to tick off usually calms him.  
   
Baby-wipes, hand sanitiser, guns, bottled water, taser, toilet paper, ammunition, books, a way to smuggle the PASIV case on board the train and not have it stolen...  
   
It's no use. The usual tactic doesn't work, he's too distracted by what happened just an hour ago. He needs to wrap his head around the fact that he let Eames hand over the SFNX program to a woman he says he trusts with his life, but whom Arthur has no reason to trust in at all. Arthur still has the worst feeling in the world about this.  
   
Ariadne, who's been out to use the communal restrooms, walks back in the room, sees him and stops in her tracks, horrified. "What are you – " She takes in the razor and walks over to him. "Arthur, no."  
   
He gives her a lopsided smile, grateful for the distraction. "It's necessary," he says. A little more gentle, he adds, "It'll grow back."  
   
"But – " she doesn't finish, just reaches up and runs both her hands through his hair, reverently, as though she's trying to commit the feel of it to memory.  
   
Arthur leans into her touch and closes his eyes. He hasn't shown her her new passport yet and isn't proud to think that he fears the moment when he will. "You're not making this any easier."  
   
"Good," she replies and kisses him. "I don't mean to."  
   
It's the first time they've kissed in what feels like days and Arthur finds himself reacting, opening up to her tongue and hands, a thirsting man finding a well. He's missed the feel of her skin, her scent, her warmth. It's so easy to get lost in her.  
   
As he pulls her close and trails kisses along her neck, tracing hints of perfume, his mind wanders. Sometimes, Arthur thinks that Ariadne’s the one thing left that's bright and untainted by the life they lead. But he reminds himself that this isn't true. And, most of all, that she's not as innocent as her face appears. It's what draws him to her; the layers, the competence, the quick wit. The heady blend of freshman features and very adult humour and tastes.  
   
He needs her as much as he needs Eames, for different reasons. Eames has known him for longer, they have a history, but Ariadne sees something in him Eames no longer does, if only because he's known Arthur for too long. She touches upon the hollow spaces inside him and he finds himself wanting to crawl inside her and let her damn well take care of him. He knows she could be a leader, in her own way. It wouldn't be smooth at first, but she'd grow into it. Arthur knows without a doubt that, given a few years, Ariadne will be at the top of the dreamshare business. But not now. Now she's what keeps him sane and he vows to make sure she's safe.  
   
Arthur nuzzles the sensitive spot at the base of her neck with a suppressed sigh, murmuring under his breath, kissing the promise into her skin, and she shudders as his breath trails down her neck. She buries her hands in his hair to pull him closer. There's something in her scent and posture that changes in those few split-seconds and he tenses, feels the mood-swing, and wishes he'd kept his mouth shut.  
   
"Ariadne – " he tries between kisses when she starts to glide her hands under his shirt.  
   
"Don't," she whispers. It's a sharp, desperate plea. Her eyes are dark, both determined and scared. "Don't try to protect me. Don't tell me things will be all right when they won't be. After all this, I want one thing from you: honesty. Dish it. I can handle it."  
   
"Can you?" he asks, unable to stop the question. "If I tell you that you'll have to shoot someone, could you do it?"  
   
"I shot Mal."  
   
"In a dream."  
   
"The guys in the internet café in Finland."  
   
"Wounded, not killed."  
   
She pushes against his chest, forcefully, creating a space between them. "What are you saying?" she asks. "That I'm not fit for this life? Not ready for it? Are you treating me like Eames' precious Suz did?"  
   
He makes to answer, but she interrupts him before he has the chance. "Newsflash, Arthur: I know my shortcomings. But I'm learning on the way. You stopped treating me like a novice when we got to Finland. Don't start again now. I can do this."  
   
"I know." He hopes she understands that wanting to keep her safe doesn't equal doubting her abilities. If there's one thing he has never doubted, it's her ability to adapt.  
   
She relaxes a little as his statement sinks in. Crisis averted. For the moment.  
   
"So now what?"  
   
"Would you like to do the honours?" Arthur asks, nodding toward the razor.  
   
Ariadne shakes her head. "I hate committing sacrilege."  
   
Arthur twitches a grin, reaches for the razor and gets to work, his eyes never leaving Ariadne's. He works by feel, not with the help of the crude, dull mirror in the room. The more of his hair falls, the harder Ariadne bites her lip, and looks torn between laughter and tears. But there's more there. Something darker. Something that seems to strengthen her resolve.  
   
Once it's all gone, Arthur steps out of the piles of hair on the floor, brushes it off his shoulders. He can't help but think that it looks like somebody has just been shearing a black sheep. It's quiet in the room now that the buzzing sounds of the razor is gone, and all Arthur hears is Ariadne's breathing and the faraway noise of somebody clinking pots together in the kitchen of the Kommunalka.  
   
"Well?" Arthur asks, because damn it, he never pretended he wasn't a little vain. He runs a hand over his head, using Ariadne as a mirror instead of the actual one.  
   
"Like you came straight out of a Solzhenitzyn novel," she comments, dryly.  
   
Arthur gives her the middle finger.  
   
"The things you do when you're on the run." Her teasing mood fades there and then. She steps closer, brushes some leftover hair off Arthur's shoulders and rests her hands there, thumbs gliding along the back of his neck into the short stubble on his head. Goosebumps skitter down Arthur's arms. It takes her a while to look him in the eye and ask the question that he knows has been formulating on the tip of her tongue. "We might not make it, right?"  
   
Arthur takes a breath, raises his hands and frames her face with them. "I can't promise it." There. She wanted honesty. It's both a relief and a punch to the gut to say it out loud.  
   
Ariadne searches his eyes, holds his gaze and the raw display of emotions scares Arthur. Determination, fear, anger, stubbornness, helplessness, all of it and more. He's not proud to say he's relieved when she looks away.  
   
"Thank you," she says eventually.  
   
He doesn't ask what she means, but is a bit surprised when she kisses him again, deep and dirty.  
   
"What are you – " he starts and moves away.  
   
"We're running for our damn lives," she frames the back of his head with her hands and yanks him against her with no gentleness whatsoever, her breasts pressing against his chest, "we haven't had sex since Finland. If I die, I don't want to get to heaven sexually frustrated, you hear me?"  
   
It's delivered with such outraged earnestness that Arthur can't help but laugh, even if the underlying implication twists his stomach, even if his body reacts to her proximity. "You think you'll get to heaven?"  
   
"Hell will have its hands full with you and Eames," she informs him with a grin that doesn't reach her eyes.  
   
"But you know hell's fondness for young women."  
   
"Virgins. For sacrifices."  
   
"And you're – "  
   
She pushes against his chest, her eyes narrowed. It's a look usually reserved for Eames, but there's more, a deeper meaning. No, she's not the same woman he met in Paris. Hasn't been for a while.  
   
"Definitely not one," he finishes, kissing her again. Their back and forth is easy, but it's hollow, lacking the zing to make it alive, make it fun. It has an edge it didn't have before. Arthur hates seeing her like this. So he kisses her instead, trying to block out the vision.  
   
She's much more aggressive now, and he reads the despair behind her actions, it's near enough to make him lose his fucking erection, and wouldn't Eames laugh if he could see this?  
   
"Focus, damn it," Ariadne commands and grabs him through his pants, massages him expertly enough to send Arthur cross-eyed. "Don't think about anything else now." The 'make me forget' hangs heavy in the air even if it's not spoken.  
   
Her grip on him is too tight, bordering on painful, so he turns the page, pushes her up against the wall, hikes up her skirt, and spreads her legs. He sinks to his knees in front of her and hears rather than sees her rest her head against the wall with a hollow plonk. Arthur goes to work ruthlessly, lips and tongue and teeth working her until her legs start to shake and only then does he push his index finger into her. She whimpers, spreads her legs wider. Her scent surrounds him. Her taste is sharp on his tongue, and, oh, yes, this is working. For both of them. She's hot and tight and nowhere near wet enough to make this painless, but Ariadne doesn't seem to care, so he doesn't ask.  
   
The blood rushes in his ears loud enough to make him miss what she's saying until he pulls back for a breath. "More," she whispers in a harsh pant. "More."  
   
He inserts a second finger, circles his tongue around the most sensitive part of her clit – he's done his damn research and knows where she reacts the most – and right on cue, she bucks against him; he adds a third, twists and curls the fingers just as he presses his tongue hard and flat against her clit and she gasps, loud, clenches around him tight enough to make his fingers hurt. Her hands are back on his head, sliding over his shorn hair, she knows his damn weak spot too and he knows she wants to grab fistfuls that aren't there. She pushes his face against her crotch, palms hot on his scalp instead, as she rides out the waves of her orgasm with a suppressed keening noise at the back of her throat.  
   
Arthur eases back when breathing becomes an issue and wipes his mouth with his left hand. He sees a bruise beginning to blossom on Ariadne's hip where he's held onto her and the knowledge that Eames will see it is strangely exhilarating.  
   
He's lost in the memory of Seinäjoki for a few seconds, flashing back to hours and hours of learning to know each other's bodies, his dick twitching. He's distracted long enough for him to wonder where the hell Ariadne got the condom she's holding toward him.  
   
It doesn't matter, though. He gets up from his knees, unzips and drops his pants around his feet, shuffles closer with an awkward move and kisses her, hard and deep. "Move," she urges into his mouth. "Move, move, move."  
   
At this point, Arthur doesn't need to be told twice. He rolls on the condom, lifts her ass, wraps her legs around his waist and slides into her with a groan as her body welcomes him. Arthur looks at Ariadne for just a moment; her eyes open and dark enough to swallow him whole. He gives himself and her the space of a breath to adjust before he fucks her hard and fast, their bodies slapping together obscenely loud. The empty bookshelf on the wall beside them rattles.  
   
It's over embarrassingly fast; he comes with a muted shout when she runs a fingernail over his nipple, sensitive even through his shirt. He leans against her afterward, forehead resting against her collarbone, his legs trembling as he slides back out of her.  
   
He guides her back down to the ground and from the way she moves, he can tell that he came before she could for a second time. Ariadne kisses him, shakes her head. "Thank you."  
   
Once they pull their clothes back on, she smoothes her hand over his buzz cut for a little while longer, fingertips rasping over the short stubble, and tracing his skull as though getting used to the feel of it. Sparks of awareness skitter over his skin, little aftershocks.  
   
"I hate this," she murmurs. "I know Eames will, too."  
   
Arthur shrugs; the nonchalance is only partly faked. "It's necessary." Eames understands this better than Ariadne does.  
   
"Still. It's such a radical change."  
   
He cracks a smile as he remembers Eames' passport. "Wait till you see Eames." Eames' picture had shown him in a short, peroxide blond buzz-cut. It peaked Arthur's curiosity, because in all the years he's known Eames, he's seen him in many disguises, but never anything like this. It still makes Arthur wonder how many years ago the picture was taken and what had led to this unfortunate colour.  
   
"What about mine?" Ariadne asks and the smile slips from Arthur's face. "What about my passport?"  
   
Arthur runs his hand through her hair, revelling in the feel of it; silky, smooth, warm. He remembers it gliding over his chest in Finland, shining in the odd light of the midnight sun, remembers Eames brushing it and Ariadne humming in contentment. He hates what he has to do next.  
   
"Arthur?"  
   
He lets go of her with a reluctant caress and goes to retrieve her passport from his jacket that's lying folded over a wooden chair by the window. It takes him a moment to slip it out of the small inside pocket. He's aware that Ariadne's gaze never strays from him. She brushes her hair behind her ears, one strand wound around her index finger, twirling back and forth, back and forth. That habit is a tell she'll be forced to break herself of.  
   
Arthur forces himself to look away and hands her the passport. Ariadne unwinds the strand from her finger and reaches for the document, haltingly. Eventually, she takes it, opens it on the picture page to find a picture of herself with a short pixie-cut, making her look so young it hurts.  
   
Apart from a sharp intake of breath, she reacts different from what he had expected. There's no tantrum, no horror, just quiet acceptance. "It's necessary, right?" She's putting on a brave front, Arthur sees through her not-yet-developed attempt at a poker face, the idea of cutting her hair this short hurts her nearly physically, but she doesn't complain about the necessity, not in the moment and not later. Not once.  
   
Arthur rails against the necessity silently, though, even as he makes the arrangements.  
   
She closes her eyes when the bird-boned woman Arthur calls in picks up the scissors. Ariadne's face is smooth, but her hands are clenched tightly into the armrests of the heavy wooden chair she's sitting on.  
   
Arthur watches the long tresses fall and cover the parquet darkened with age and thinks just how much Ariadne already had to give up because of him. In the grand scheme of things, this is a relatively small price to pay, but it goes out of proportion as he watches her. It's like watching the final piece of her innocence fall away.  
   
Eames slips into the room quietly, his now white-blond hair an eyesore. Ariadne doesn't see him, her eyes are still held firmly closed. Arthur forces himself not to look at Eames as Eames runs a hand over Arthur's head. He can't take the naked openness in Eames' eyes right now. The short bristles whisper against Eames' palm. Arthur feels goosebumps skitter over his skin and leans his head against Eames' hand.  
   
The woman cutting Ariadne's hair is the no-nonsense, efficient type, she works quickly and within less than fifteen minutes, Ariadne has the perfect pixie cut and looks so painfully young that Arthur feels the need to pinch himself.  
   
She opens her eyes when the hairdresser brushes away tiny bits of cut-off hair with a corner of the towel and bites her lip.  
   
"Get me some of your dye," Ariadne says, turning toward Eames. "If we're doing this, we're doing it right."  
  


	11. Trans Siberian

The train rolls achingly slow. It shakes and rattles on the old tracks and the steady thud-thud as it meanders through the outskirts of Moscow is as annoying as it is soothing. Soothing is something Arthur could use right now, because SFNX is still burning a hole in his pocket. The attempts to upload the program in St. Petersburg and in Moscow failed, and he's just as on edge as he's been since he first left Moscow almost two weeks ago, especially since he's handed over a copy of the program key to Eames' former colleague.   
   
Arthur makes an effort to relax his limbs, to concentrate on his surroundings, to distract himself. A warm breeze stirs the already too warm air in the compartment; it smells of sweat, onions and alcohol. The first bottles of vodka were opened pretty much as soon the train rolled out of the station and the first offers to join the drinkers were voiced immediately after.   
   
Dom hated trains, but Arthur has a fondness for them and he knows Eames does, too. He remembers a long trip on a night-train to Lisbon after their last extraction. He and Eames people-watched all night long, talked to the oddest passengers, too high on the adrenaline of a job well done to settle. With a student from Denmark, they debated the philosophical question of what the respective other would do if he knew that a catastrophe were to happen at a train station that would kill at least ten people, but they could stop it if they sacrificed just one – what choice would they make. Arthur smiles as he remembers his and Eames identical answers, and the look of slack-jawed surprise on the student's face.   
   
When he looks over to Ariadne and Eames, he sees Eames with his head in her lap, fast asleep while Ariadne combs her fingers through his hair. She smiles at Arthur, serene and mysterious as the Mona Lisa, before she looks back out of the window where the last buildings disappear and give way to meadows and forests.   
   
A babushka with a tea trolley comes through after a few hours. Arthur asks for three strong, sweet black teas from the Samovar in a horribly accented Russian, going with the disguise of American college students on vacation. The old woman gives him an indulgent smile that wrinkles her entire face and repeats in just as accented, but otherwise perfect English, "There you go, _dorogoy_ , there you go, feed your brother and sister."   
   
Arthur fights a smile, remembers the big bed in Seinäjoki, the smell of musk and sex, the feel of hot skin.   
   
If only she knew.   
 

***

   
These are the things that Eames loves about train travel – meeting new people, being forced to sit more or less still, having time to think and focus on the important things or letting your mind wander. On Russian trains, it's the hospitality. The first offers of vodka and food are followed by others and haven't stopped since. Arthur, despite his over-planning mind, forgot to bring food with them, so Eames gratefully accepts the little offers from all over the compartment.   
   
He has time to think here, while the landscape outside blurs out of focus and the rattling noises of the train lull him. Leaning against the train's thin plastic wall at the head of the bed, Eames pulls his knees up, stretches out his arms and rests his wrists on his knees.   
   
Here they are now. On the run, still not safe themselves, but with a copy of the program safely in Suz' hands. By the time they reach Irkutsk, she may have uploaded it already, from France, maybe, or Italy, thus thoroughly throwing their pursuers off their trail. If they're not already on it. It's something he hasn't discussed with Arthur, but Eames knows that Arthur has thought about it as well. If anyone catches them here, on the train, they're dead. There's no place to run.   
   
His mind travels back to Suz and something in him constricts when he remembers her last words. He's under no illusion that she might come around. Suz' decisions are definite, there's no going back now. Another bridge burned. The last one to his old life. He's truly cut loose now, and Eames is surprised by how much that bothers him, how deep the knowledge cuts. He was on his own before, but never quite like this. For the time being, Ariadne and Arthur are all he has left.   
   
For the time being. Nothing lasts forever.   
 

***

   
They reach Novosibirsk past nine p.m. on the third day of their journey, and there is a migration wave off the train at the Novosibirsk station, leaving entire compartments empty. The station is large and modern and swarming with too many people; he can't assess them all, so Arthur stays on board instead of stretching his legs outside like other passengers do. He looks at the loud welcome scenes and once more hopes that they're safe aboard the train, that all their safety measures really worked. Neither he nor Eames have mentioned it to Ariadne, but if anybody finds them in the train, it'll be embarrassingly easy to kill them.   
   
Ariadne's dozing up on her bunk when Arthur returns to their compartment and the train starts to roll again. He allows himself the luxury of watching her sleep for a while. He envies her sometimes for still having that invisible golden armour of invincibility that comes with her comparative youth. She's learning, but she's never seen the truly bad things in life the way Eames and he have. She's never been wounded, not the way Arthur knows Eames has. Arthur takes the thin blanket and pulls it up to her elbows. Part of him wants to make sure it stays that way, but realistically, he knows that he can't, and that she wouldn't want him to protect her from the world. She doesn't need it, either, but that doesn't change the fact that he wants to do it.   
   
Arthur leaves her to her dreams – something he envies her for, her natural dreams – and goes in search of Eames.   
   
He finds him standing in the corridor in front of the _kupe_ cabins – the second class cabins that offer four bunk beds and a table. Most are occupied, some are empty but have already been marked as to-be occupied once the train reaches Irkutsk. The window is open and Eames looks at the setting sun that's only barely visible over the sparsely tree-dotted horizon. It reflects off the crystal clear surface of a small lake they pass. A heron sails over it, graceful and undisturbed by the rattling train.   
   
"Hey," Arthur says.   
   
Eames makes a non-committal sound and keeps looking out the window. The last orange-and crimson rays of the dying sun caress Eames' face and illuminate his eyes. Arthur notices, not for the first time since they left Moscow, that Eames is unusually quiet.   
   
He settles for silence himself, enjoying the sway and clatter of the train, the easy comfort of Eames beside him. Quiet is something he's always appreciated; he hadn't realised Eames did as well.   
   
The tracks round a sharp enough curve that the two of them feel it and Eames; shoulder brushes Arthur's. They stay close even after the train straightens its path east. No one else is in the corridor with them, there's no reason to pull away, so he doesn't. Eames is a source of steady warmth next to him, Arthur feels each point of contact between their bodies, Eames’ arm against his and the subtle press of his hip. Ostensibly, Arthur looks out the window, but he doesn't see the sun dip past the horizon; he's lost in the sense memory of Eames, of feeling him move under him, of tasting his skin. He feels rather than hears Eames breathe next to him. Heat creeps up Arthur's neck and he scratches under the collar of his thin t-shirt. Eames glides a finger along the outside seam of Arthur's jeans, fingernail catching on the washed-out denim before it detours to Arthur's wrist.   
   
Eames finally looks at him and the intensity of his gaze strikes a match to Arthur's gasoline. He feels his breath catch in response to the sudden heat, the reminder that he's had sex with Eames, that Eames is thinking the same thing.   
   
A quick lick lip on Eames' part confirms he is on the same page.   
   
"The cabin's empty," Eames says.   
   
They can't know what waits for them in Irkutsk or after. They're not safe. There's just the moment and Arthur is tired of putting what he wants on the backburner when he really doesn't know if there will be a tomorrow. He finally concedes caution in the face of want.   
   
Arthur takes Eames by the hand and opens one of the empty cabins. He pulls Eames inside and closes the door behind them, then draws the curtains in front of the glass windows facing to the corridor.   
   
As soon as the blinds are drawn, Eames spins Arthur and attacks his mouth with hungry, open-mouthed kisses. Arthur sways a little, unprepared for the sudden fervour, but he doesn't complain, hell, he's not stupid. Eames has the same thoughts he does, this could be their last chance, they could be caught and shot on this train, so spending some time before the inevitable fucking each other's brains out sounds like a damn good idea. The thrill of risking getting caught only pulls Arthur's stomach tighter with excitement.   
   
Eames tears at his clothes, honest-to-God growls when Arthur's shirt doesn't cooperate. The sound glides under Arthur's skin.   
   
Eames pushes and Arthur pulls, there's nothing gentle about what they're doing, it's all raw and primal. Arthur's lost in Eames' smell, their smell, sweat and musk mingled with the new cotton scent of Arthur's shirt.   
   
He tunnels his hands under Eames' shirt as well, meets hot skin sticky with perspiration. He breathes Eames in, lungs full of that earthy scent before he gets impatient with the thin layer of fabric still between them and shoves Eames away.   
   
"Off," he grunts.   
   
Eames complies faster than Arthur can blink, a seam of the shirt tears in the haste but Eames obviously doesn't care, he reels Arthur back in, kissing him until Arthur's dizzy with the lack of oxygen. He grabs Eames' ass, cupping both hands around firm cheeks and pulls Eames against him. Eames mirrors his move. Through their jeans, their erections rub together; they both groan and still for an endless second. The only sound around them is their harsh breathing, the rattling of the train and the thundering beat of Arthur's heartbeat in his own ears. Eames hands bite into his ass, flexing, and that pushes Arthur's dick against Eames', the small moves creating an unholy friction.   
   
They grind against each other and Arthur's eyes slip closed, he loses himself in the sensation, but Eames is impatient as he sucks a bruising kiss into the side of Arthur's neck. The zing goes straight from Arthur's neck to his dick; he sucks in a sharp breath, lets go of Eames' ass and pulls him into a vicious kiss that's all tongue and teeth and no finesse whatsoever.   
   
Arthur fumbles with the buttons on Eames' jeans, clumsy, and Eames doesn't help with the way he's rolling his hips up and into Arthur's touch, but finally, finally he manages to get the button fly open and slip his hand past Eames' underwear onto Eames' cock.   
   
Eames goes absolutely still, doesn't even breathe. His hands claw into Arthur's upper arms hard enough to cause bruises. The guttural groan he gives when Arthur runs a blunt fingernail along the silky-soft underside of Eames dick makes Arthur's knees weak and his own dick twitch.   
   
Arthur looks up at Eames then, wanting to see his face, but Eames is all impatience and intent again, and twists them around instead as he tries to shove Arthur at the lower bunk.   
   
Arthur's head collides forcefully with the upper bunk.   
   
The dull ring of pain shakes him from his need-induced daze. Despite the fact that his dick disagrees and wants nothing more but to continue exactly the way they started, Arthur stops Eames with his hand resting on Eames' chest and ignores the way he can feels Eames' heart beating against his palm or how he wants to lick the damn tattoo curling around his left nipple. He shakes his head to clear his mind a little. Something doesn't feel right. There's none of the easy teasing, the exploring touches he's used to from Eames, instead it's replaced with a brutal intensity that jars. This is too desperate, too quick, and much too sharp-edged.   
   
Arthur clears his head with a deep breath. "Tell me," he says. His voice sounds wrecked.   
   
"What's to say, Arthur? You know the situation we in, the odds we're facing." Eames doesn't avert his gaze, but his expression goes away, leaving a neutral sort of mask in its place. The change from the heated stare of a second before is like opening a door to the Antarctic in the middle of the Sahara. Arthur has seen this before, he knows when Eames is putting up his shields, and he'll be damned if he lets Eames shut him out.   
   
"You knew the odds when you took the job," Arthur replies, because he's sure now that Eames knew about the mysterious client, probably more than Arthur himself ever did. And still he came. Still he worked with them, put himself in the line of fire with them.   
   
Arthur strokes his fingers over Eames' bare collarbone, feeling the ghost of Eames' heartbeat through his skin. He distracts himself with the intricate ink on Eames' chest and tries to come up with a game plan. He can't offer words of comfort, they'd be lies and Eames would know it. But this, this touch isn't a lie.   
   
Eames looks out the window when he answers, but his voice is strong, unrelenting. "I didn't know I would be giving up the last piece of who I was."   
   
"You're still you." Arthur's not sure if he's ready to hear more. Despite his suspicions, Arthur has always seen Eames as the steady one and it tips Arthur world on its axis that there are things that can ruffle Eames' feathers, things that can hurt him.   
   
"But not who I was. Suz is," Eames stops, runs a hand over his face and the wall around him slips with that small gesture, " _was_ the last friend I had from before... this life."   
   
So that is what this is all about. Suz was the last tie connecting Eames to his past, to the life he led before he became a forger. That last connection is severed now and the gaping wound it left is still open. Arthur kicks himself for not noticing it earlier.   
   
"She's a good friend," he states, though he should pose it as a question. But it's not necessary, is it? Arthur saw the depth and the history of that friendship back in Moscow and he sees it now, in the raw hurt Eames radiates over its loss.   
   
"She was." The emphasis is on was; Eames' honesty is brutal.   
   
Arthur doesn't apologise. It's not what Eames wants, though it might be what Arthur needs. Instead, Arthur raises his hands toward Eames, to do something, anything, but he lets them fall again, useless. He wants to say so many things and can't come up with a single one that would be right.   
   
Eames softens, then, reaches for Arthur's hand and rests it on his, palm to palm. He runs his fingertips along the veins on the back of Arthur's hand. It's meditative in its simplicity. Arthur can tell that Eames is remembering.   
   
When he looks up from their hands, Eames gives him an unsteady smile. "She asked me to be her best man and then made me wear a kilt for the wedding. Bloody Scot."   
   
There's so much pain condensed in the memory of this part of his life Eames will never get back that Arthur has trouble breathing for a moment.   
   
He has no idea how to fix this, how to fix either Ariadne or Eames, all he knows is that due to his actions, they have lost more than they ever should have.   
   
Arthur glides his hands to Eames cheek, feels the short blond stubble bristle against his palms. He cups Eames' face, strokes his thumbs over Eames' cheeks.   
   
"Hey."   
   
Eames closes his eyes and leans into Arthur's touch before he stops himself, his spine going stiff. When he opens his eyes again, his gaze is far away once more.   
   
Arthur understands only too well, has been there before he met up with Dom. Eames has just cut all the strings to his former life, he's completely lost at sea. Yes, Arthur knows the feeling, he just hadn't thought that Eames still had ties. Despite all his flaws, Eames had, in a way, appeared invincible when it came to this.   
   
Apparently, Arthur couldn't have been more wrong. "Look at me," he urges, gentle.   
   
Eames doesn't move.   
   
"Look at me."   
   
Eames' chest rises and falls rapidly, like he's fighting a war with himself, but eventually, Arthur sees Eames' gaze return to him from a thousand miles away.   
   
When he feels he has Eames' full attention, Arthur states, "I'm here. You're not alone."   
   
Eames searches Arthur's face for a long time, his gaze open and forlorn and Arthur does nothing but to hold his gaze in the dim light and stroke his thumbs over Eames cheekbones.   
   
People pass outside the cabin, their voice are accompanied by the clatter of a metal flask that falls to the ground and rolls along the corridor. The train rattles and screeches in the tracks as it rounds another sharp bend.   
   
Eventually, the frown-lines on Eames' face smooth out and he leans forward, resting his forehead against Arthur's. Arthur closes his eyes and feels his breath synchronise with Eames'.   
   
They stay that way until the _provodnitsa_ 's voice outside the cabin announces dinner in the dinner compartment. Arthur opens his eyes and finds the cabin dark, with the lights in the corridor seeping in from underneath the curtains. The people to their left and right file out of their cabins and it gets quiet again soon.   
   
Eames words are a puff of warm air against Arthur's lips. "How about that romp on the bunk now?"   
   
Arthur laughs. If that's how he can assure Eames he's not alone for the moment? Hell, he plans on convincing him often, to hell with anyone who might watch. Maybe the cabin will stay empty for a while longer and they can get Ariadne as well. But not now. Now, his focus is on Eames and on Eames alone. Arthur kisses him and forgets about the world for a precious hour.   
 

***

   
If Ariadne had thought the days in their hideout in Finland had been uncomfortable, this beats it. Travelling on the Trans Siberian train isn't anywhere near as romantic as people make it out to be.   
   
In their third-class _platzcart_ carriage, there are fifty bunk beds, and the damn train is jam-packed. Up to this moment, Ariadne has never imagined how bad humans, her included, which bothers her the most, can smell after even just a short while with no air conditioning and no showers. Because of course Eames would choose the lowest-standard train available. The newer ones, she read in a brochure, are all air-conditioned, but this one is real mother Russia. No AC, no shower, no stoppers in the sinks.   
   
Her skin feels sticky, her hair oily and smelly, she's been wearing the same underwear for two days now and she shies away whenever Eames or Arthur try to touch her. It's too warm and she is uncomfortable in her own skin. Also, to be honest, neither Eames or Arthur are fragrant flowers and she's not smitten enough to look past that.   
   
It doesn't seem to faze them. She can see them in the night, moving under the thin blanket they all rented for fifty rubles a day, quiet but with intent. She's amazed just how quiet they can both be despite the creaking springs in the bunk beds, how they can even regulate their breathing, but even if the other passengers don't notice it, Ariadne can tell how their scent changes, she smells the sex on them and feels left out, resentful toward herself and them. She knows they'd include her if she let them, but she's neither ready to touch nor to be touched where literally a dozen people can watch them. There is adventurous sex and then there's exhibitionism. She has never been interested in the latter.   
   
She stretches out on the thin mattress of the top bunk, keeps herself still and crosses her arms under her breast, fighting the urge to cross her legs as well to rid herself of even a little of the unresolved sexual tension. The springs dig into her back, the train shakes and rattles. Every now and again, she catches a whiff of smoke from the smoker's corner at the end of the carriage. The train has a strict no smoking policy in the sleeping areas, but the smoke clings to the smokers like a shadow when they return with the usual loud snapping noise of the sliding door as it moves back into its resting places. She's glad Eames had the foresight to book them beds in the middle of the carriage. At least that way, they don't have to be directly next to the toilet. The toilet she's sharing with at least twenty-five other people. Ariadne groans under her breath. She has learned to refrain from going too often. Sure, it was clean in the beginning, but after two days, even with the best efforts of the _provodnitsa_ , it's pretty damn ripe. Ariadne's never been more glad for the invention of hand sanitiser and moist wipes.   
   
Somebody in the aisle a few bunks down opens a window with a scraping metal sound and disrupts her thoughts. The noise of the train, its steady, lulling _tchk-tchk_ , is louder now, but a draft of cool night air glides over Ariadne's skin and she uncrosses her arms, breathes out in relief.   
   
The group of young soldiers she met earlier seems to be playing cards still, and though hushed, their voices carry through the carriage as distinctly as the bright clinking of their vodka bottles. Ariadne sat with them for a while in the afternoon after they left Ekaterinburg, but gave up on playing when she realised that it was more about drinking than winning. She still tastes the contraband vodka on the back of her tongue and remembers the young soldier's raucous laughter. After the vodka she had in Finland, the cheap Russian stuff tasted like instant blindness and was probably higher in methanol than actual alcohol. It doesn't seem to bother the soldiers, though. Remembering their faces, Ariadne thinks that they'd be arrested for underage drinking in the States. So young, all of them. Younger than her, fresh-faced and bright-eyed. She wonders if she still looks that way to them or if the past months show on her skin like Eames' tattoos.   
   
The train moves into a curve, making the wheels hiss and screech in a long wail that hangs in the air like a mourning cry.   
   
The child in the top bunk right next to hers, a round, freckled six-year old by the name of Natalya, wakes from her restless sleep with a twitch. Her crying is a small, fragile sound in the steady monotony of the noise of the train, laid over loose metal clanking and people snoring, soldiers still playing cards and somebody blowing his nose, laughter and random conversations filtering in from the corner with the samovar in it at the end of the carriage whenever somebody opens the door.   
   
" _Ticho_ ," Natalya's uncle says in a low, sleep-drunk voice from the lower bunk. He doesn't get up to check on the little one. Ariadne's Russian is rudimentary at best, but she knows enough that just the command _Quiet_ never helps. It isn't a heartless attempt, she's seen the uncle with the child earlier, awkward and out of his depth: likely he just doesn't know better.   
   
She turns to her side to see round open eyes staring at her.   
   
"Your uncle's not very good with kids, is he?" Ariadne whispers, knowing fully well the kid won't understand a word she's saying. "It's okay," she continues and reaches out a hand to rest it on the child's tousled hair. "It's all right, you're safe." Natalya looks frightened, the foreign language appearing to freak her out even more after the nightmare.   
   
"We could give you good dreams," Ariadne murmurs, keeping her voice low and soothing. "Beautiful ones. I could build you a castle. We could make it better."   
   
"No, we couldn't." Eames' voice is suddenly right next to her ear and she flinches at his tone. "And we never will."   
   
He climbs up on the bunk to sit right next to her, opens his hands in an universal gesture of harmlessness and speaks low in Russian to Natalya.   
   
After a while, the tears dry and she nods, answers in quiet, but still hiccupped sentences, throwing glances at Ariadne.   
   
Eames smiles as he turns back to Ariadne. "She heard you sing earlier."   
   
Ariadne flushes, she hadn't realised that, when she hummed along to the music from her IPod earlier, it would be so audible. "That's why she had the nightmare?"   
   
Eames' smile turns into a grin. "Close, but not quite." He looks at Natalya, who nods as though she understands what he's saying. "She wants you to do it again."   
   
For a while, Ariadne thinks she's being played, but both Eames and the kid look too serious.   
   
And this is how Ariadne finds herself humming Beatles songs to a frightened Russian girl in the middle of the night, while down on the lower bunk, the girl's uncle snores enough to single handedly mow down a birch forest.   
   
Eames tucks Natalya in and then gets comfortable, sitting cross-legged on Ariadne's bed.   
   
She's just medleyed _Yellow Submarine_ into _She Loves You_ – a little off-key, so what? – when she first notices Eames wince and mutter something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, "Sorry, John." She thinks about giving him the finger, but remembers the child next to her and refrains from the urge. "You go ahead if you can do it better," she mouths at him.   
   
"No, no, I admire you vocal prowess," Eames says, "Really."   
   
She just raises her eyebrow at him and goes off-key on purpose after that. It doesn't seem to bother Natalya, but Eames keeps wincing, probably holding an avid apologetic conversation with John Lennon in his head. Her rendition of _Norwegian Wood_ is atrocious and she enjoys every second of it. Eames' face, so pained and pinched, makes it worth it. She sticks out her tongue at him when she sees Natalya's eyes have slipped closed and Eames, realising that he's been played, starts laughing – silently – so hard that he almost falls off her bunk.   
   
Once Natalya's asleep for good, Eames climbs down the small ladder. He reappears after a few minutes, throws a paperback novel on her mattress and presents a bag. Ariadne lights up when she recognises the bag with the grease-stains that have spread since she last saw it. Arthur picked the pastries up for just a few rubles from one of the many vendors crowding the platform at their last stop. He bought it, as he admitted later, without having a clue what it was. As a result, Eames made it clear that Arthur was going to be the first to try, but Ariadne had beaten Arthur to the contents, too hungry and too curious to care. They'd shared a mystery meal on Eames and Arthur's bunks in the late afternoon, discovering that their pie-like pastries were absolutely delicious.   
   
Food is the one thing they didn't pack, but between the friendly Russians on the train and the vendors at the stops, they've more than made do. But those pastries... Her stomach rumbles in a downright Pavlovian reflex.   
   
Ariadne snatches the bag from Eames, rolls it down just enough to make a corner of the pastry appear and bites into the buttery crust it with a reverent sigh.   
   
Eames catches her delight and grins. They don't speak in order to not wake Natalya again, so Ariadne points her thumb down toward the lower bunk and mouths, "Arthur?" in between bites.   
   
Eames mimes sleeping and Ariadne nods. She's always glad when Arthur allows himself the luxury of sleep. The gentle rocking of the train makes it easy to doze all day, and Arthur needs it.   
   
She eats half of the pastry before she offers the bag to Eames, who declines with a nod to his book. No grease-stains, even if it's just a spy novel dash murder mystery bought cheap at the train station. She's noticed the careful way Eames handles books, as though they're friends, not objects. The irony of Eames reading a spy novel isn't lost on her, either, but it's amusing to watch him roll his eyes at the portrayal of the protagonists. If she's lucky, he sometimes reads out bits and then dissects the incorrectness and the sloppiness of the author's research. It's times like these that she feels at ease just listening to his voice.   
   
Later, as she stretches out again, tired, Eames is sitting at the other end of the bunk, her feet in his lap, still reading in the feeble light of a single light bulb, and he gives her a narrow-eyed look when she kicks the book's spine inadvertently. Ariadne lets her arm dangle over the edge of the bed, grateful for the breeze cooling her skin.   
   
She laughs at him.   
   
Before she falls asleep, in that strange timeless state between wakefulness and dreaming, she feels a familiar, graceful hand wrap around hers from the lower bunk, closing the gap between the three of them.   
   
She smiles.   
  


	12. Rasstreljaj jej

Irkutsk.  
   
Finally.  
   
After four days on the train, Eames looks forward to a damn shower and some steady ground beneath his feet.  
   
People file out the train before them, but Eames, Arthur, and Ariadne are lagging behind on purpose to avoid the crowd on the platform.  
   
When the _provodnitsa_ tells them in no unsure terms that their ticket is only valid until Irkutsk and they need to get off, they finally move. Arthur takes point, a little irony not lost on Eames, Eames follows, and Ariadne brings up the rear, bidding her farewell to Natalya and her uncle. He hears the bright chatter of the little girl and grins, knowing Ariadne won't understand a word of what she's saying.  
   
The air that hits his face as he walks down the steps onto the station is dry and hot. The light is bright enough to make him squint, the pure glare of the Siberian summer reflecting off the picturesque bright blue and white train station building. Eames takes a deep breath and smells summer and diesel exhaust from the buses he hears idling on the other side of the station. He's always liked Russia and the smell is familiar. A group of loudly chattering children distracts him from a cursory scouting of the surroundings and he stops walking as they suddenly swarm around him, their faces bright and excited, the big, propeller-like bows in the girls' hair swaying like pale poppies in the summer heat.  
   
When they have passed him with the aide of some stern words from their teacher, Eames catches Arthur's amused glance and grins in return before he turns to check what's holding up Ariadne.  
   
His heart drops clean to his shoes. Ariadne is pale and stiff, her eyes are huge, and she stumbles as she walks off the last three steps. A tall, wiry man is walking much too close behind her to be just a rude passenger trying to get off the train. She stares at Eames, mouths, "Gun," but he doesn't need the extra clue to put one and one together.  
   
The pretty house of cards he built for them in his mind collapses with a quiet shuffle as reality crashes in.  
   
Eames catches Arthur's elbow to make him aware, scans the station and sees three more men just behind the group of kids. He knows with a sudden, painful certainty that Ariadne's already dead, they all are. Eames is under no illusion what these men are here for and under none whatsoever that there's any way to run. Not unless he wants to risk a shoot-out with a group of kids in the middle. Their bright chattering turns into a cacophony blended with the rushing of blood in Eames' ears and the shrill Russian pop music blaring from a car in the distance. If he had any chance to do something, it's over in the five seconds it takes for the men to reach them. Eames feels the unmistakable press of a gun against his ribs and curses inwardly.  
   
There are a few things Eames knows. They'll kill Ariadne should she not give them the program. Eames knows he won't get to her in time and the leverage that could buy her life remains out of reach with Arthur. Arthur, who for the moment seems paralysed by the knowledge that they've been found after all and who, despite all his expertise in and outside of dreams, won't be able to withstand torture.  
   
Think fast, think fast, think fast...  
   
He needs the damn program. He has the most experience with hostage situations, more than Arthur, definitely more than Ariadne, but, fuck, he wishes he were alone now. Three people are stupid odds to get out of a hostage situation alive.  
   
He catches Arthur's gaze and thins his lips, tries to convey somehow that he needs the program. Thankfully, Arthur catches his meaning and doesn't protest. In an Oscar-worthy rendition of a drunken sway, Eames deliberately stumbles into Arthur so that the other man has to catch him. He feels Arthur press the flashdrive with the program into his hand.  
   
Now what? If the men check them, they'll find the flashdrive immediately. It has to vanish somehow. But how do you vanish something when there's no place to hide? Eames clenches his hand around the flashdrive, their tiny reason for being in this whole mess, the only reason they're still alive. If these people knew that they still have the program on them, they'd have killed Eames, Arthur and Ariadne already. He wonders what description Katya gave, wonders if maybe she gave them that tiny chance or if she just didn't know better.  
   
It doesn't matter now. The flashdrive bites into Eames' palm and his decision, though he winces at it, is made.  
   
They're being hustled toward an old lorry that's marked by many Siberian winters, streaked with road-dirt and rust. The gun that's pressed just shy of his spine never wavers. He smells the man's sweat and the odour of too many cigarettes, a whiff of freshly baked bread from a stall outside the station. Just a few more steps until the lorry. If he wants to go through with it, it has to be now.  
   
Eames sways again and starts to mutter loudly in a drunken slur. "Hey, where're you taking us?" Ariadne's shocked glance is an excellent cover. "I don't like," he hiccups, keeps on slurring, "don't like guns, you hear?" He sways into the man holding Ariadne's arm. "Don' like it when you thr," he trips over the word, tries again, "thr-eaten my girl." He gives the guy a watery glare and raises his fists. "No one threatens my girl, you hear?" Eames raises his voice along with his fists. Several people start to stare and within seconds, the guy's face turns dark. Eames knows it's coming but when the fists connects with his cheek and nose with a distinctive crunch, it hurts like fuck nevertheless.  
   
"Eames!" Ariadne's voice is shrill with fear.  
   
"Ow, motherf –" Eames claps his left hand over his bleeding nose and mouth and closes his lips around the flashdrive resting in his palm.  
   
He bites his tongue in an attempt not to crunch it between his teeth when another blow across the back of his skull knocks him off his feet. He feels himself being tossed in the back of the lorry like a wet rag, wood and metal scraping his bare lower arms before the lights go out.  
 

***

   
Eames wakes to Ariadne's shaking hands on his face in a futile attempt of cleaning some of the blood off his face with the sleeve of her shirt. Her hands are bound with a zip-tie, as are his. From the corner of his eye, he sees Arthur unconscious on the ground as well. Eames swallows, runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth and feels the flashdrive still present. It's small, but big enough to be noticed if one of the guys looks at him too closely.  
   
The thugs aren't here now, too cocky to set up a guard for three bound people in the back of a lorry, so Eames asks, "Is my face swelling?"  
   
"What?" Ariadne's eyes are large, her lips too red from where she must have bitten them.  
   
"Is it swelling?" Eames repeats.  
   
She nods, reaches out to touch his cheek with a look of deepest sympathy on her face.  
   
Eames turns his head away. "Good." He tongues the drive between his cheek and teeth.  
   
The lorry stops, the strong old engine dies with a stuttering cough. Through a tear in the tarp, Eames sees birches and blue sky. There are no noises of other cars and he has a feeling that they're not in sight of anything or anyone who could stop the men from going through with their plan. His stomach sinks some more. If they don't get themselves out of this, nobody else will. No rescue at the last minute.  
   
He feels Ariadne move next to him and rolls toward her. God, he's sorry she's in this whole mess. She deserves better. They all fucking do, but she's too young to end up as the punching bag - he doesn't allow himself even the thought of the other alternative - of a couple of frustrated Russian mercenaries. "When they start punching me, panic. Loudly," Eames says in an undertone to Ariadne.  
   
There's a look of shock mingled with outrage on her face. "What? No, I can – "  
   
Eames clamps his right hand, bound though his wrists are, around her arm hard enough to make her yelp. "Cry. Scream. Throw up. They'll go easier on you."  
   
Especially if she throws up. No one wants to get vomit on them, not even a boot used for kicking in teeth and ribs. And if there is one thing Eames knows for sure, it's that everyone breaks in the end. Ariadne will break. It'll save her a hell of a lot of pain if she breaks fast.  
   
He watches her pale as the deeper meaning of his words sinks in.  
   
These men, they're mercenaries. If Ariadne, Eames or Arthur don't give them what they want, they won't hesitate to try and force it out of them, no matter the cost. If one of them dies, that leaves two more. The last one left will talk for sure. No one is that tough.  
   
A trickle of sweat runs down Eames' back at the thought. He's never been good at torture himself. Pain makes him a coward. This isn't a dream, either. He won't wake up to find his body just fine. More sweat burns his eyes. Bloody hell, who said Russia was cold anyway. It is sodding hot. He's sweating like a pig.  
   
Eames isn't heroic enough to say, even in his head, that he's only afraid for Arthur and Ariadne. Crikey, no, he's pissing himself scared for his own safety as well.  
   
The door opens and the tarp is pulled back with a sharp, rustling snap.  
   
"Get out," the thug who'd punched Eames in the face commands in clipped Russian. Ariadne doesn't move, Arthur's still out.  
   
Eames blinks blearily at them. Better to keep up the act for the moment. "I don' speak no sodding Russian," he slurs. It earns him a kick to the ribs and a push with a dirty work boot off the back of the lorry. Eames drops on the dry, cracked dirt and the impact forces the air out of his lungs. He coughs, curls in on himself and rides out the waves of pain. This is only the beginning.  
   
He sees Ariadne scramble out on her own, then Arthur's body drops next to him and Arthur comes to with a groan.  
   
"Up." There's a shotgun pointed at Arthur's head. "Get up."  
   
Eames looks up to see a small, run down wooden hut in the middle of an area covered with young birches. The ground is burned by the summer sun, the light reflects off the bark with a downright painful intensity. The air shimmers with heat just above the ground. As he expected, there's no street nearby, just a dirt path that looks as though it hasn't seen a car passing since the last rain fell, which, if he's looking at the ground has been a couple of weeks ago.  
   
He wonders if there's even mobile phone reception out here. Not that it would help them much right now.  
   
One of the thugs, a short, stocky Mongolian type with a perfectly clean-shaven face, accurate hair-cut and an overpowering aftershave, wearing a much too clean pair of jeans jerks Eames roughly up by his arm and pushes him toward the hut when his phone rings. The fucking Imperial March. Christ, a geek thug. Eames' day just gets better and better. AT least there's reception out here. That's a small relief.  
   
The man switches from Russian to Kazakh when he answers the phone in clipped, one-or two-word sentences. He looks at Arthur, Eames and Ariadne, nodding. From the way he's holding himself during the conversation, he's receiving orders. So they're not on their own. Eames files it away for later.  
   
Behind him, he hears Ariadne give a dismayed sound and looks around to see one of the other thugs, a babyfaced, lanky blond run his had over Ariadne's face with a leer. She looks shell-shocked, panicked. Eames stomps down on the reaction that's building up inside of him and remembers his training. Let her be afraid. Better than having her be too certain. It'll make her performance much more realistic later.  
   
"Leave her alone," Eames says, still slurring, and takes a step in the blond's direction. Yes, it'll earn him another kick, another punch, but at least it'll distract the thugs from Arthur and Ariadne.  
   
Of course, the punch comes without delay. He doesn't have to hide the noise of pain, playing the role he's playing, and that's a relief, because it hurts like fuck. His lip was already split from the last punch, it re-opens now and he tastes the coppery tang of blood. The thug with the phone steps aside with a noise of disgust when Eames spits blood and salty saliva, and while he doubles over, he notices that the man's boots are squeaky-clean. A geek, neat-freak thug. Better and better yet. Eames thinks how in the murder mystery and spy-novels, the thugs are all alike: Unwashed, dirty, smelling of sweat and cigarettes. The thug who' guided him to the lorry had been like that, but Eames has learned a long time ago that even thugs were diverse these days. There's no universal rule of thug-ism. That would make things too easy.  
   
He's glad Blondie seems to be left-handed and has thrown the punch on Eames' other cheek or the flashdrive, despite its metal casing, would be history by now.  
   
What now? What the hell now? He desperately hopes that Arthur has a plan, because Eames is coming up empty and all he can do is buy Arthur time and distract the men from Ariadne.  
   
They get shoved inside the baking hot wooden hut. The air inside smells of warm carbolineum and dried mould, but at least the light no longer stings the eyes.  
   
The Mongolian thug pulls Ariadne away from Blondie and hisses something at him. Ariadne is wide-eyed but still quiet, even though her body language speaks volumes. Looks like Mr Neat-freak has some manners. Eames doesn't like it. The man's moves are too studied, he likes himself in the role of the good Samaritan too much.  
   
After he has sat Ariadne down on a bench on the opposite side of the door, the farthest away from Eames and Arthur as possible, but still giving her the perfect line of sight, Neat Freak turns to Eames and Arthur. "Let's not beat around the bush, hm?" he says in Russian. "I know you understand me and you know why you're here. So why don't you give us the program and no one gets hurt?"  
   
Eames snorts. "That's likely," he mutters under his breath.  
   
"I had a feeling you were faking," Neat Freak smiles as he crouches next to Eames. "You know why? Your performance is admirable, but the lack of alcohol fumes gave you away."  
   
Eames carefully lets the flashdrive glide back from between his teeth and cheek to under his tongue where there's less of a chance of it being seen. He doesn't trust the swelling in his face.  
   
"Program?" Arthur says in perfect, if accented Russian. Neat Freak's gaze snaps in Arthur's direction. "What kind of a program are you talking about?"  
   
"Tsk, tsk," Neat Freak says, pulling out a bottle of hand sanitiser and spreading a dollop between his hands. "What did I say about playing dumb?" He moves quickly; trained, precise moves and Arthur is on his knees on the dirty floor, doubled over in pain, before Eames can even blink. Neat Freak rubs some more sanitiser between his hands before he bends down to Arthur. "So you're the brains of this operation?"  
   
Arthur thins his lips and doesn't answer.  
   
"Not wise," Neat Freak says while behind him, Blondie and two more men Eames can only vaguely make out inch closer. "We can make this very unpleasant for you."  
   
Eames has no doubts about that. He also knows that Neat Freak won't get his hands dirty, that's what he has his goons for. Blondie's boots are steel-capped, Eames can see the metal glistening through a tear in the leather. It's going to hurt like a bitch.  
   
"Who tells you that we still have it?" Arthur asks, and his voice sounds strained.  
   
Neat Freak narrows his eyes for a moment before a smile brightens his face. "You'll tell us," he states and nods toward the men behind Blondie.  
   
Behind him, he hears Ariadne calling his name. "Leave him alone, leave him alone, _leave him alone_." Her voice gets louder and shriller with every word, panicked, hysteric.  
   
Eames watches them move closer as though in slow motion, but their actions happen sooner than his eyes expect them. A steel-tipped boot lands in his stomach, the other in his face. Eames yells and tries to move away, hears his nose crunch under the impact and feels the bright gushing of blood. He chokes, gags on the stream of blood down his throat, draws a rasping breath of air.  
   
"Eames!" Ariadne screams loud enough to make Eames wince.  
   
"Be quiet," Neat Freak says quietly.  
   
Ariadne understands the simple word perfectly, but she's in full performance mode now: Her face is red and streaked with tears; she's sobbing for all her life; snot bubbles in front of her nose. "Leave him alone," she keeps chanting, interrupted by hiccupping breaths. Excellent work, Eames thinks. The messier she makes this, the less likely any of the guys, least of all Neat Freak, will touch her. She was pretty before, but right now, she's as ugly as tears and hysteria can make a person.  
   
"Get him up," Neat Freak tells the man behind Blondie. He's a thin, all but gaunt man of medium height with prematurely grey hair. Eames recognises the ring on the man's middle finger and knows he has a matching mark in his face somewhere. Number Three pulls him to his feet and Eames catches a whiff of sweat and cold cigarette smoke as well as vodka. This would be the grunt, then. He's seen this kind of man before on several occasions. They don't care and have little qualms about hurting others. If Number Three were to accidentally kill Eames, he wouldn't lose sleep over it.  
   
"We'll start with him, since he's already dirty, anyway," Neat Freak says, conversationally.  
   
Number Three nods and rams his fist into Eames' stomach again. Doubling over once more, Eames isn't sure how much longer he can hide the damn flashdrive. If it's going to be a severe beating, he'll eventually spit out the drive along with a few teeth. God, and he'd just had everything fixed after Astana. God damn former Russian states. They seem to have it in for him.  
   
"You don't want to keep going," Arthur tells the man, his voice forced calm.  
   
Neat Freak nods toward Number Three and another punch has one of Eames' ribs cracking. The sour scent of the man's sweat is sickening as Eames sags forward and against him. "No?" Neat freak asks. "But maybe we do."  
   
Arthur catches Eames' gaze and gives him a hard look. "He has a medical condition. You might kill him before you get anything out of him."  
   
And this, right there, is the best chance Eames will ever get. While Number Three raises his fist for another blow, Eames manoeuvres the flashdrive from underneath his tongue on top of it and swallows.  
   
The blood still running down the back of his throat seems to make it simple in the beginning, but the damn thing is bigger than god damn American vitamin supplements and Eames gags as the drive glides into his throat. Number Three's fist crashes into his face nevertheless, forces his head back and the drive glides farther down his throat, but then lodges there and suddenly, Eames can't breathe. The drive is wedged there, too damn big to be swallowed. He feels his eyes bulging, scrabbles for his throat but can't reach, tries to draw breath and can't and desperately hopes that someone here knows the damn Heimlich manoeuvre because it looks as though the drive is not going down and Eames will choke on the damn thing before it ever reaches his stomach.  
   
Ariadne is screaming and even the men are shouting now, Number Three drops Eames like a hot potato, Ariadne dashes to his side, Arthur shouts but everything drowns in the rushing of the blood in Eames' ears, in the darkness slowly creeping in from the sides and he can't breathe, he won't die in this miserable shit-hole, he won't but he can't fucking breathe. Someone kicks him for good measure, of course they would, of course they think he's just acting, but in the end, the kick to his diaphragm, painful though it is, is what shocks him enough to momentarily relax his throat and the drive glides down.  
   
"Whatever they're paying you," Eames hears Arthur say while he tries to even out his breathing, "I can offer you more."  
   
"If we get a hand on that program, we'll be richer than you can even dream of," the thug who hasn't said anything so far replies. His voice is high as though he only made it halfway out of his voice change and that's probably the reason he rarely talks. Through his rapidly swelling eyes, Eames sees a handsome, dark-haired young man with ice-cold eyes. If Blondie and Number Three were bad already, Eames has a sinking feeling that Number Four makes up for what he's lacking in vocal prowess in cruelty.  
   
"I can dream of a lot," Arthur says and Eames fights the urge to snort. Arthur can be cucumber cool if he wants to. Eames makes a mental note to kiss Arthur for it if they make it out of this alive.  
   
"We're not interested."  
   
"They can't have offered you that much."  
   
' _That's good_ ', Eames thinks. Keep them talking. As long as they talk, they don't attack.  
   
"You don't get it, do you? It's not about the money _they_ offered. It's about the money our boss will make from selling that program."  
   
"They'll kill you. You're dealing with intelligence agencies."  
   
"We'll manage."  
   
"How?"  
   
"That's none of your concern." Number Four gives a horrible leer in Ariadne's direction, his odd voice quivering with anticipation as he continues, "All you should concern yourself with is what we'll do with your lady friend here before we'll kill her in front of your eyes."  
   
Eames shudders. He's been afraid of that. The threat of sexual violence is always the worst and the most damn effective. Holy fuck, they never should have brought Ariadne into that. Eames is glad that they're holding this conversation in Russian, glad as hell that Ariadne doesn't understand a word of what Number Four - or any of them, really - is saying. Glad, too, that she's keeping up the hysteric act.  
   
"You don't need to threaten me with what's happening to her," Arthur says with a cold, cold smile that pulls a ring of ice around Eames' heart. It takes a gargantuan effort to not snap his gaze toward Arthur to see if Arthur is giving him some kind of clue as to what he's planning. "It won't work."  
   
Neat Freak narrows his eyes. "What do you mean?"  
   
"I don't have the program. Never had it. If anyone knows where it is," Arthur points to Eames, "he does."  
   
Jesus Christ. Arthur. Eames feels as though his stomach has just been dropped at high velocity. He coughs up some of the blood that's been trickling down his throat from his broken nose.  
   
"Why do you think he tried to protect her when you caught us and not me? Why was she screaming his name and not mine?" Arthur jerks his head toward Ariadne. "He was trying to best me. They were working together. Wanted to kill me somewhere convenient and leave with the program." The nasty smile on Arthur's face grows wider, but never, never reaches his eyes. "If you want the real weak spot here, you'll look to her. Or better, what she means to him. And don't try to torture her. She's been trained to withstand it."  
   
Eames' mind races. What is Arthur playing at? He must have realised by now that they won't get out of this by bargaining his way out, he can't offer them the program because Eames fucking swallowed it and the only way besides waiting for it to reappear the natural way would be for the men to kill Eames, or what is more likely, cut him open alive, so what the hell is Arthur playing at?  
   
He catches Arthur's gaze, is about to shake his head when what he sees there paralyses him for a few long, shocked moments. Arthur knows. He knows they won't make it out of this. He knows what these men'll do to Ariadne, knows that it'll be horrifying, traumatising and as painful as they can make it. And he –  
   
"Rasstreljaj jej," Arthur says, his voice calm and melodious and it takes Eames a split second longer than it should to translate. "He'll talk."  
   
Shoot her.  
   
Arthur doesn't have the gun to shoot her herself so he's trying for the next best thing, Eames realises, his head swimming. He chokes, swallows bile. God, Arthur would have made a bloody fantastic spy. Cool, calm decisions. If only Eames weren't more than certain that Arthur will make sure there's a bullet cutting through his own brain as soon as Ariadne drops.  
   
No. He thinks. They're not there yet. No, fuck, _no_.  
   
"Will he now?" Neat Freak says in a thoughtful tone. He walks toward Ariadne who's still tear-streaked and puffy-eyed but has stopped sobbing. He steps close to her, scrutinises her with no small level of disgust. "Trained to withstand torture, is she?" he asks Arthur before he turns back to Ariadne with a kind, reassuring smile. Her eyes never leave his face, but her shoulders sag a little, body-language betraying relief when Neat Freak does nothing but stand there and look kind. It's quiet in the hut, which makes the sudden "Boo!" Neat Freak shouts in Ariadne's face all the louder. Ariadne flinches as though slapped and the smile on Neat Freak's face turns nasty. "Trained, yes?" He snaps his fingers toward Blondie and out of nowhere, there's a switchblade in his hand suddenly.  
   
Eames' heart stops beating for a painful half minute.  
   
Neat Freak moves the knife back and forth in front of Ariadne's face; the sun reflects off the blade and throws bright light patches on her skin. They illuminate her eyes and show one thing all too clearly: Naked fear.  
   
"You know what I think? I think you're playing with us," Neat Freak says to Arthur, conversationally. "And I think we'll have much more fun taking a lot of time with her."  
   
Arthur suddenly springs into action, a growled sound of outrage mingled with fear escaping from his throat, but he doesn't get far before a fist catches him in the face and a boot in his stomach and he lands on the ground next to Eames.  
   
"Not so impatient," Neat Freak says. "We'll get to you, don't worry. But, ladies first."  
   
This time, the whimper from Ariadne is real. Eames' face is swelling enough by now that he has trouble seeing clearly, but he hears the shuffle as the men inch closer to Ariadne.  
   
He and Arthur are pulled roughly to their knees so they're facing Ariadne. There are guns pressed to their heads, the warm metal bites into Eames skull. "Front row seats, yes?" Neat Freak says. Eames feels flashdrive move deeper in his stomach and dry-heaves as the enormity of the whole situation hits him like a ton of bricks.  
   
They will torture her in front of their eyes and Eames has the only thing that could save her inside his bloody innards. He sways. Her or him. Her or him. Arthur's breathing next to him is laboured. Her or him. _Say it, Arthur. Don't make me sacrifice myself._  
   
Neat Freak glides the knife over Ariadne's cheek, light as a caress. She keens and Eames sees blood well up along a long, thin cut.  
   
Her or him. _Make the damn decision, Eames._  
   
Her or –  
   
The Imperial March suddenly blares through the silence in the hut and Neat Freak steps back as though stung. He answers in the same, clipped words as before, but his tone changes during the course of the conversation, from surprise to outrage to teeth-gnashing acceptance. He hangs up, stretches his back and carefully tucks his phone away. Then he reaches for the hand sanitiser again and rubs it in as though washing his hands in innocence.  
   
"Congratulations," he says to Arthur and Eames. His voice is calm, but it's forced. "Your plan worked. The program has been publicised via an internet café in Spain today."  
   
Eames sags, relief so sharp it makes him dizzy. Suz. God, Suz.  
   
"What does that mean?" Number Three asks.  
   
"It means that we won't get anything," Blondie answers. "No money."  
   
"None?" Number Three's reaction would be comical if the situation were any less dire.  
   
"They're worthless," Blondie confirms and the frustrated kick he aims at Eames has Eames sinking back to the floor. He doesn't try to get up again. The floor is beginning to look comfortable, the darkness hovering along the side of his vision is far too tempting.  
   
"We could keep her." Number Four's high, unpleasant voice slices through the haze settling around Eames' mind. "Have some fun at least."  
   
"Get your hands off her. We have orders to leave them alone," Neat Freak says.  
   
"What?"  
   
"Would you like to discuss this with the boss?" Neat Freak asks.  
   
There's no answer.  
   
"I didn't think so."  
   
Eames hears something being thrown and caught and then the familiar noise of duct tape being unwound from the roll.  
   
"Bind those two," Neat Freak says, "This one," he nudges Eames with just the tip of his boot, only to wipe it clean with a tissue immediately, "looks done for anyway."  
   
"Why bind them when we could just kill them?"  
   
"Because we have orders to leave them alone," Neat Freak repeats. "And that's exactly what we'll do."  
   
"Maybe you will, but I –"  
   
It's the last thing Eames hears before another kick sends him into unconsciousness.  
 

***

   
It's sweltering hot in the shed when Ariadne wakes from the taser treatment the thugs used to incapacitate her. Her entire body hurts down to the last hair follicle. The stench of creosote bites the inside of her nose and mingles with the stink of her own fear. Her throat is raw and parched; she's never been so thirsty in her whole life.  
   
Beads of sweat run down her face and back as she breathes through her nose and strains against the duct tape binding her hands and legs.  
   
Ariadne fights against the panic that's threatening to choke her when she looks at Eames' broken form a few feet away from where she's lying on the ground. He's outlined by the meagre light coming through the boarded-up windows of the hut and what Ariadne sees chills her to the bone.  
   
Yes, the thugs left, but Eames is unconscious –– not dead, not dead, not dead, he's still breathing. Arthur's not moving. Her damn phone is buzzing in her jeans' pocket. It hasn't rung once since she set foot into Russia and now it might be salvation but she can't _reach_ it.  
   
She moves, frantic, tries to worm her way over to Eames. Arthur can't help, he's bound the way she is, trussed up like a damn Thanksgiving turkey, but the Mongolian thug hadn't wanted his or any of his pack's hands dirty, it seemed, so he'd left Eames on the floor. For dead, a persistent voice in her head says, but she forces it down ruthlessly. Eames is still breathing, and if he's breathing, he'll wake up. He has to. She's not going to give up just because he's out.  
   
Ariadne tries to speak against the tape, which of course doesn't work, but at least there's a sound and she keeps making it, keeps wordlessly yelling while she keeps moving her body caterpillar-like until it collides with Eames'.  
   
Eames doesn't react.  
   
Her phone buzzes again and she yells louder, pulls her knees against her chest and kicks Eames. The sound he makes breaks her heart, but at least he's moving now. There's no time for being squeamish, since she doesn't know how much of a charge her phone still holds.  
   
Eames rolls to his side and coughs, spits blood.  
   
Ariadne keeps making frantic noises and finally, finally Eames seems to understand and begins to unwind the tape from her wrists. His hands are unsteady, fumbling, she can tell that he can barely see what he's doing, but after what feels like a small eternity, he gets the tape loose and frees her hands. Ariadne rips the tape off her mouth, ignoring the pain this brings with it and unwinds the rest of the tape from her legs before she wriggles her hand inside her pocket and fishes out her phone.  
   
 _Unknown_ _caller._  
   
"Damn it!"  
   
No use trying to call back when there is no number. She curses under her breath, then moves to free Arthur. He's not looking at her, she notices, but she has no time to riddle that now.  
   
Her jeans and shirt are damp with sweat, the hut feels like a damn sauna, and Eames is panting on the ground now, shaking and coughing.  
   
Like a sauna...  
   
Ariadne feels the blood drain from her face. "The door!" she snarls at Arthur. "Get the door."  
   
To her great relief, Arthur moves. It takes him the better part of five minutes to kick open the door; the creosote-soaked wood is stronger than it looks. Together, they pull Eames outside of the hut and into the shade of the young birch trees. He starts to breathe easier there but is non-responsive otherwise.  
   
"He needs a doctor. Is there anyone we can call?" Ariadne asks Arthur.  
   
"We're in the middle of nowhere," Arthur states and leaves it at that. His tone is flat; he still doesn't look at her. All he does is pull Eames' head into his lap and clean Eames' face, careful not to touch the bruises. His moves are a study in calm, downright automatic in their repetition.  
   
"Arthur!" Ariadne demands after a few moments.  
   
Arthur doesn't look up.  
   
"What the hell is wrong with you? We made it out, do you want to give up now?"  
   
He doesn't answer and Ariadne is about to shout her outrage when her phone rings for a third time. She picks up, breathless. "Yes?"  
   
"I was beginning to worry," a familiar, accented voice says.  
   
"Saito," Ariadne breathes and she wants to kiss the ground Saito's walking on. Next to her, Arthur straightens when he hears the name. She wants to ask a thousand questions but her phone beeps at her, signalling the low status of the battery. She's distracted and only hears the question when Saito asks it for a second time. "Are Eames and Arthur with you?"  
   
"Eames needs a doctor," she blurts instead of answering the question.  
   
"That will be arranged. What about Arthur?"  
   
"They went easier on us."  
   
She thinks she hears him nod and imagines his face pinched. His next words have her knees going weak with relief. "Stay where you are." The underlying 'help is on the way' is clear.  
   
But there's nothing here, she can't explain their location, so, "How will you find us?"  
   
"Your phone is easily traced," Saito answers, his voice light, before he hangs up. He doesn't reprimand her but Ariadne's stomach falls nevertheless as she puts one and one together.  
   
Eames told her to destroy her phone so they couldn't be traced and she'd done as he'd asked, but she'd kept her SIM card. Kept it, bought a new phone in at the train station and loaded the card into it once they were aboard.  
   
She looks at Eames, broken and bloodied in Arthur’s lap, Arthur with a black eye and bruises all along his arms, feels the caked blood on her own skin, and knows with an acute, sharp clarity that all of this is down to her.  
   
Arthur will never blame her, neither will Eames or Saito, they won't even mention it, but she knows and can't unknow: If she had listened, they would have made it out unscathed. Maybe this is the reason Arthur can't even look at her anymore. It's not apathy, it's disgust.  
   
Blood rushing in her ears, she stumbles back and sits down on a tree trunk, dropping her forehead to her knees. She breathes through her open mouth, tastes dust and burned grass and regret and wonders if she's going to be sick.  
 

***

   
Eames wakes to the familiar smell of Arthur, mingled with the scent of resin. He hears bird-song and wind rustling through tree tops. He hears Arthur breathe and relaxes a little. Not dead, then.  
   
His entire body hurts, he can't open his eyes, and even drawing breath is excruciatingly painful.  
   
The sun burns his face.  
   
Ariadne. He tries to speak but can't, but he needs to because he doesn't remember what happened to her, doesn't know if she's all right.  
   
"She's fine," Arthur murmurs, his voice flat.  
   
Something isn't right, Eames can feel it, but right now, it doesn't matter. Unconsciousness beckons with gentle arms, and Eames follows.  
 

***

   
Through the trees, Ariadne sees the sun set in spectacular hues of purple and crimson, setting the sky ablaze in an overabundant use of nature's own box of water colours.  
   
Ariadne finds that she doesn't enjoy the display at all. Mosquitoes are swarming around them, she's been bitten what feels like hundred times already, and she doesn't look forward to spending the night in a dark Taiga forest.  
   
Arthur hasn't spoken since Saito's call. She heard him murmur something to Eames, but apart from that, he appears closed off and immovable, silent as a rock. Ariadne wants to hate him for it but can't, she wants the comfort of at least an arm around her shoulder, but doesn't know how to ask for it. Not after what she did. Eames needs him more than she does, anyway.  
   
If only Saito would hurry. She knows it's a stupid wish, since she has no idea where he is and whom he'll be sending; it could be hours before anyone finds them here. If her phone's battery doesn't give out before.  
 

***

   
Eames wakes again to the high whirr of a mosquito close to his ear and, far in the distance, the sound of a car.  
   
Panic claws at his mind, they're back, god, they're back to finish what they started. Eames tenses, scrambles to get up, unseeing, pain flaring along every nerve ending, but Arthur presses his shoulder down, keeps him immobile with a single, quiet word. "Saito."  
   
Eames sinks back down, breathing hard. "Charming man, Saito," he remembers Katya saying. "Willing to take risks."  
   
Of all the coincidences in the world...  
   
Eames starts to laugh until he's coughing. Coughing up hot wetness, gagging at the salt-and-copper flood on his tongue, recognising the taste, choking on his own blood.  
   
The last thing he hears is Ariadne's voice, shrill with fear, calling his name, and Arthur's harsh, gasped, "Don't you dare, you bastard, don't you – "  
   
Darkness.  
 

***

   
Plan A failed.  
   
Plan B failed.  
   
Plans C through G failed.  
   
There's no reason this will be any different, Arthur thinks. The only thing real is the dry, still sun-warm dirt of the Russian taiga and Eames lying in his arms, probably dying, because Arthur can do nothing.  
   
It's not logical to believe they'll be saved now, no matter what Ariadne tells him.  
   
Ariadne. He can't see her in the dark anymore. She's invisible, shrouded in a cloak of night, untouchable, distant.  
   
She must know. He couldn't stop them from going after her.  
   
If the thugs had believed him, if the Mongolian's phone hadn't rung, if the battery had died... Ariadne would be dead now. All it would have taken, all the stupid coincidence it would have needed to have them all dead on the ground, would have been a malfunctioning cellphone. But he isn't thinking of that, won't think of that. No.  
   
There was plan F, but it was as bad as Plan C.  
   
Eames' breath is rattling, he's hot and tense, tries to move in Arthur's arms; it could be convulsions, he could be dying. Not thinking of that. A car rumbles in the distance, one with a powerful motor. He stills Eames' movements, murmurs Saito's name though he doesn't know why he repeats what Ariadne told him earlier. There's no room for a tourist in their fucked up nightmare of a failed op. They're alone in this.  
   
Something crawls over his bare lower arm, tiny feet rustling through the hair there; each touch feels as though the bug digs needles into his skin. Arthur welcomes the pain. It's too dark to see it. In a minute, he'll swat at it. Before it touches Eames. Though if they die here, there will be nothing and no one to stop the insects from touching Eames, or Ariadne, or him. Food for worms, each of them.  
   
A raspy sound interrupts his morbid train of thought; somebody's laughing. Laughing at Arthur, at his hopeless shuffle to avoid the inevitable. Plans upon plans upon plans and they all fail, they all fail.  
   
Plan K had been a good one, but Eames had swallowed the flashdrive. To get to it, they would have sliced him open like a lamb for halal, without the kindness of slitting his throat first. Arthur's not thinking of that either, not imagining being up to his elbows in Eames' warm blood, _no_ , god, stop.  
   
A twig breaks, there's movement next to him, he smells sweat and body lotion and carbolineum and the scents eat away the skin inside of his nose like acid. Ariadne smells like that, not like carbolineum, no, the body lotion, that strange green tea scent that claws into Arthur's brain.  
   
Ariadne, if the phone hadn't rung, if they'd believed him –  
   
Eames starts to cough and Arthur's focus returns, laser-sharp, shuts down every other thought. He turns Eames to his side, tries to get him to breathe easier, but Eames chokes, the coughing turns into an ugly wet gurgle, like there's blood in his airways. Arthur smells it now, the cloying reek of warm blood. It soaks his jeans, sinks into his skin. Eames is choking on his own blood.  
   
"Come on, you bastard, don't you dare, come on, don't do this now," Arthur chants. It sounds like the words come from someone else and he's listening to them from somewhere far away.  
   
Ariadne is at his side, yelling Eames' name, and it's still too dark to see, he can't even look at Eames, can't do anything except hold him, will him to pull through.  
   
By the time a car appears and Saito steps into the headlight's glare that outlines him like a fucking superhero, Eames is unconscious and barely breathing.  
   
And Arthur?  
   
Arthur takes a deep breath, pulls a cloak of ice around himself, and shuts down.  
 

***

   
The car ride to the airports takes far too long and it doesn't matter that it's comfortable in the fully equipped SUV, doesn't matter they're safe now and that Saito's driving like a bat out of hell to get them all to his jet as quickly as possible, all that matters is that Eames isn't responding. It's not like before when he fell asleep, this time, he won't wake even when Arthur slaps him. There's a thin trickle of blood from his mouth and where his skin tone is visible under the livid bruises, he's deathly pale. His lips and fingernails are going blue.  
   
Ariadne meets Saito's gaze in the rearview mirror but looks away quickly, back to Eames. Internal bleeding, most likely. How long can he go on with them, how long before there is permanent damage? Arthur would know, but Arthur's not talking, he has shut down everything except where he reaches out to Eames. It's like he only functions because he has a purpose and Ariadne shudders to think what will happen if –  
   
No. No. She refuses to even contemplate that. Eames will be fine. He will be all right, if only Saito would go faster.  
   
Streetlights appear, brightening the interior of the car and she sees Saito slant a look over his shoulder at Eames. His face is pinched with concern. Ariadne can't help but draw the comparison, she wonders if Saito remembers being shot on the first dream layer of the Fischer job.  
   
He must feel that he has her attention. "How long?" Saito asks, inclining his head toward Eames.  
   
"Several hours," she answers, and it's the first they've talked since he picked them up. "But he'll be all right."  
   
Saito's lips thin, he looks back at the road.  
 

***

   
The world is movement and sound and pain.  
   
 _Movementsoundpain._  
   
It shakes, hums and, god, it _hurts_.  
   
A voice is saying something, but Eames can't make it out anymore.  
   
He goes into the darkness alone.  
 

***

   
They reach the airport in another fifteen minutes and Saito drives the SUV onto the runway without being stopped once. Money buys everything, especially airport security. A jet is waiting for them, the sleek, shiny body looking out of place against the old, greying airport building.  
   
Arthur and Saito take Eames between them and carry his unresponsive body aboard the jet. Inside, it's air-conditioned cool, there's a subdued scent of new furniture, plastic, coffee and antiseptic welcoming them. A man Ariadne identifies as a doctor meets them, takes one look at Eames, and moves to a closed-off section off the main cabin. She sees medical equipment when the door opens; a petite Japanese woman in a purple surgical jumpsuit is pulling up a syringe. Not just a doctor, but a nurse, too. Ariadne feels such a wave of gratitude toward Saito wash over her that she contemplates hugging him and not letting go. She decides against it and sinks into the soft cushions of the seat instead, unpleasantly aware that she's dirty and sweaty and most likely leaving stains on the cushions. She doubts that Saito will care.  
   
Once he has handed Eames over to the doctor, Saito fades into the background giving quiet commands, watching with attentive eyes until they're all taken care of. She's grateful for his discretion, even though she knows he'll quiz her later. While the doctor checks on Eames, the nurse cleans the cut on Ariadne's cheek and covers it with a thin, long strip of gauze. Arthur watches, but she can tell he doesn't see; he's physically present, but his mind is with Eames. Ariadne isn't surprised. Despite being a little more alert, she can't think straight either, not while Eames is unconscious and his face and body look so broken she's afraid he may never wake up again.  
   
The jet starts to roll eventually; Ariadne can't say if it's only minutes or an hour after she sets foot on board. The acceleration presses her into her seat, a slight queasiness overcomes her when the nose goes up but once the machine is airborne, it's the smoothest flight she's ever experienced. Quiet, too, the jet must be incredibly well sound-proofed.  
   
She refuses food for the moment, just drinks what feels like her body-weight in water, unable to get anything else down.  
   
They've been in the air for half an hour when the nurse sticks her head out the door to the closed-off section of the jet, smiles at Saito and says something Ariadne can't make out. Saito replies with a few clipped words and then the nurse opens the door, allowing the smell of disinfectant wash into the main cabin.  
   
"He's sleeping now, but you can see him if you want."  
   
Arthur is on his feet immediately and Ariadne, too, gets up from her seat. Arthur is at Eames' side in the blink of an eye, standing over Eames still, bandaged form, checking every little detail. He pulls a chair next to the bed Eames is resting on, bends forward and rests his forehead against Eames' hand. There's sweat mingled with dust on the back of his neck; Arthur's too dirty to be in here, but neither the doctor nor the nurse complain.  
   
Ariadne wants to go in there as well, make sure Eames is all right, but stops in the door, rooted to the spot by the dark stains on Arthur's shirt and jeans she only just now sees.  
   
Blood.  
   
For a painful second, she thinks he's hurt after all and just hasn't said anything, that he's been bleeding all the time and she missed it, but then she realises that the blood is dried. It's not Arthur's.  
   
It's Eames' blood.  
   
Blood she's responsible for.  
   
Her stomach lurches. Arthur strokes Eames' bandaged hand, carefully, so carefully, and Ariadne presses her hand to her mouth, her head swimming with the knowledge that she caused all of this.  
   
She never makes it to Eames' side; instead detours to the lavatory when her stomach revolts.  
 

***

   
Ariadne shuts the door behind her and bends over the sink, heaving but not bringing anything up. She rinses her mouth with chlorinated water that reminds her of the States. Splashing her face with it, she forgets about the gauze and it ends up dripping wet so she tears it off with a quick, sharp pull. The pain grounds her enough to distract her from the queasiness. Red drops mingle with the water, she watches the pale-pink liquid drain away. After a while, she reaches for a couple of soft white paper towels and raises her head to look in the mirror.  
   
She barely recognises the face that looks at her. With the bleeding cut on her face, the short, highlighted, greasy hair, the chapped lips and the dark rings under her eyes, she looks like a junkie, not like the just-graduated college student she is. The face that looks at her is not hers. She doesn't know this woman, and yet she knows that this is her now. There is no changing what she's seen and what she's done, there is no way to get her hair back other than growing it back and, in the end, the analogy behind it is what tips the balance. It's not that she almost got killed, not that she killed by proxy, not the constant danger she's been in since she met up with Arthur in Finland, not Eames gravely injured on the bed no fifteen feet from her... No, ridiculously enough, it's her hair which has her losing it.  
   
Once the first teardrops have fallen, a dam opens and there's no way of stopping her tears. Ariadne sinks down on the closed toilet seat, crosses her arms over her knees and lets her head drop on them. She cries until her head hurts, a big, ugly, snotty crying fit that has her body trembling under the sobs. She keens, cries hard enough to make herself sick over everything she used to have and everything she has lost. Especially the parts she threw away. Selfishly, she mourns the girl she used to be.  
   
It takes her a long time to calm herself enough to shuffle back to the sink and wash her face. The wound on her cheek has scabbed closed when she looks up at the mirror once more. Her bangs are wet, her eyes puffy, god, she's _ugly_ , but she takes a deep breath, runs another paper towel over her face and rests her hand on the door.  
   
She loses it all over again when outside, in the sitting area, Saito asks her what happened.  
 

***

   
Ground.  
   
Car.  
   
Plane.  
   
Arthur's on a plane now, though he can't remember how he got there. But Eames is there, Eames is okay, he's bandaged and fixed and sleeping – notdead _notdead_ notdead, _sleeping_ – and there are no more mosquitoes here.  
   
The smell of carbolineum lingers, sharp and unpleasant in his nose, like a coating of tar he can't wipe away. The mosquito bites itch.  
   
Ariadne. He can't see her. Did she get shot after all?  
   
Panic claws at him with icy fingers and his walls crumble; he's too exhausted to maintain their strength and feelings are creeping in through the cracks.  
   
He rises, sways. There's blood on his jeans, on his shirt, his hands.  
   
Of course. Of course he has blood on his hands. If it wasn't for him, none of this would have happened, if he hadn't wanted a team again, if he'd done this alone, if – His mind trips over itself, Eames body on the gurney swims into focus, but Ariadne's still nowhere in sight – _because_ _you_ _killed_ _her_ , his mind insists, silkily, _they_ _tortured_ _and_ _killed_ _her,_ _don't_ _you_ _remember,_ _shot_ _her_ _just_ _like_ _you_ _told_ _them,_ _but_ _only_ _after_ _they_ _had_ _their_ _fun,_ _remember?_ – and no, he doesn't fucking remember, there are large chunks missing from his memory and it freaks him the fuck out so where the hell is she, she can't be dead, it's not possible, didn't he just see her, he swore to protect her and Eames, Eames is here and safe, wasn't she in the hut, he still smells the carbolineum, so she must be here, it can't be, they can't have left her, they need to go back, somebody is choking, Ariadne, he can't lose her as well, he can't –  
   
"Arthur." A voice cuts through the haze of his thoughts, tinny and weak at first.  
   
"Arthur, let go!"  
   
Ariadne.  
   
Arthur blinks a couple of times and sees her to his right, her hand on his arm that's shoved against Saito's throat, pressing Saito against the wall. Saito's eyes are large with fear, the veins at his neck stand out, he's close enough Arthur sees the first stubble marring the perfection of those sharp Japanese features.  
   
"Let go."  
   
Arthur stumbles back as the pieces fall together; his arms hang at his sides, useless. It's all right. They're all here. Eames, Ariadne, they're both here. Saito, too. Saito who rescued them and whom Arthur just tried to choke. Saito, who over coughing and sucking in big gulps of air still manages to snarl at the doctor.  
   
Arthur's knees buckle there and then, the plane around him is too loud and too bright, the smell of antiseptic too strong to take. Saito's hand on his shoulder is warm, calm, steadying. Arthur doesn't deserve it, knows he should refuse it, but everything inside him clings to that little bit of comfort it offers.  
   
Only the comfort is too immediate, too readily offered.  
   
The plane hums underneath his knees and shins and Arthur tries to deduce how he got here. There are chunks of his memory missing, he doesn't recall getting on the plane, doesn't even recall leaving the forest.  
   
 _You never remember the beginning of a dream, do you?_ he hears Dom's first lesson to him, the one he gives everyone he trains, because it's impressive, because the realisation is so stark.  
   
Arthur's palms grow damp. He looks around him, sees Ariadne pale and shaken, Saito in his crisp suit, the luxurious plane, and it all seems too damn perfect, too much like a desperate man's pipe dream. So what tells him this isn't a dream? What if he's still in the hut in Irkutsk, and all of this is a dream to extract information from him, information on how to get to the program? The last thing he remembers clearly, without a fugue, is the train station in Irkutsk. He was knocked out there, wasn't he? He doesn't dream naturally anymore, hasn't for years, so what if they hooked him up to a PASIV? What if all of this is a dream? A god damn nightmare up to now, but that would fit, wouldn't it?  
   
He's only seen Eames bruised and battered, then unconscious, next up, bandaged and asleep, but he hasn't spoken, has he? Eames could just be a projection. So could Saito and Ariadne, both are too quiet to be real.  
   
Arthur reaches into his jeans pocket with a hand that trembles and freezes. His totem's not there. He hasn't needed it since he arrived in Finland, but he always, always has it on him, in his right pant-pocket, close and always body-warm.  
   
It's no longer there.  
   
He looks up, sees a doctor and a nurse step closer and can't help but think that this dream is getting more unrealistic by the minute, who has a jet with a doctor and a nurse on board? Who rescues people he hired to do a job? Who manages to find these people in the middle of the Russian taiga? It can only be a dream. He doesn't need his totem to piece everything together.  
   
But if it is, that means they're still in Russia, still in Irkutsk, and Arthur's under and he has no way to help the others, has no clue what the thugs are doing to them, if they're still alive.  
   
He needs to get out of here. He needs –  
   
Saito and Ariadne are still watching him with wary eyes, the doctor and the nurse are creeping closer, carefully, as though approaching a wounded animal, and as Arthur looks in their direction, he sees the path to the section of the plane where the projection of Eames is lying clear. He remembers gauze and needles and a scalpel in the doctor's hand earlier.  
   
He has no gun, so he decides in favour of the next best thing.  
   
Death's always a kick.  
   
It takes him only seconds to get back on his feet, shoulder the nurse out of his way, and lunge for the table with the medical supplies.  
   
It slides away from him under the impact, metal clangs against metal, the table topples and it takes him a few precious moments to find the scalpel underneath the clutter of shears, bloodied tissues, and gauze.  
   
Somebody screams his name. He looks at Eames' hand, bandaged and yellow-ish brown where it has been swabbed with iodine. He hopes he hasn't wasted too much time figuring out the truth. Maybe it was only a couple of minutes up above.  
   
Arthur grabs the scalpel tighter. This isn't going to be as clean and as fast as he wants it to be, but he can't wait any longer. They need him up above, he can't leave them alone.  
   
Ariadne is in front of him when he guides the scalpel to his throat. "Arthur, please."  
   
He shakes his head and smiles; the sudden clarity is a relief after the jerkiness of his thoughts earlier. "You're not real," he says and sets the blade against his skin. His carotid pulses underneath it.  
   
"Arthur, look at me," she demands even as her gaze flickers away from his briefly to look at something behind him. "Where's your totem?"  
   
"Lost," he grits out, but what does she care? She's just a projection, just here to confuse him. He needs to get out of here, he needs to –  
   
"Arthur!" He flinches when she shouts in his face. The scalpel breaks his skin and he feels blood well along the cut. It trickles down his neck to his collarbones, warm and reassuring.  
   
"You're not real, and you won't stop me," he says and smiles wide at her before he puts pressure against the scalpel.  
   
"Like hell," she retorts and pulls his hand away with all her might.  
   
The prick of the needle barely registers, but he sees the doctor step aside and hand the syringe to the nurse. No, Arthur thinks before the chemically induced sleep takes him. _NO_.  
  


	13. West Nalaut

Ariadne wakes when the plane touches down. There's a lingering fuzziness to her thoughts and for a while, she feels disoriented and doesn't know where she.  
   
The flight attendant smiles at Ariadne when she reaches over to open the blind that's blocking the view out the window.  
   
The light that hits her face is so bright that Ariadne is momentarily blinded and stops trying to untangle herself from the fleece blanket covering her. Afterimages dance on the insides of her eyelids.  
   
"Welcome to West Nalaut Island," a familiar, accented voice says.  
   
Ariadne flinches, she hasn't heard Saito approach.  
   
"Where?" she asks, unable to place the name Saito has given her.  
   
"Let's call it a place as far away as possible from any outside influence," he answers.  
   
Safe, Ariadne translates, but before she can enjoy the feeling, a thought hits her. "Eames?" she asks, hears her voice break on the syllables. "Arthur!" She looks around and can't find either of them. Her heart starts to slam against her ribcage. "Where – "  
   
"Resting," Saito answers. "They are in good hands."  
   
Ariadne breathes against the panic that has risen.  
   
Saito waits, gives her the time she needs to get herself under control.  
   
After a couple of moments, she nods to him, and he motions for her to follow him to where the flight attendant has already opened the small plane's hatch. Bright sunlight filters inside, but she braces herself this time, and only squints against the brightness when she steps near the exit.  
   
Her eyes sting as she walks down the metal staircase, and this time, it's not the light causing it. What she beholds is too far-fetched to be real, too perfect to not be a dream.  
   
The staircase ends on a runway over which white sand is blowing in a gentle breeze. The air is warm, pleasant and carries the clean iodine scent of the sea. To the left of the runway, coconut trees provide shadow to luxurious-looking, straw-thatched huts that nestle against the trees. To the right, there is an uninterrupted stretch of snow-white sand, gently kissed by the sapphire blue waves of the ocean.  
   
She reaches for her totem, but doesn't find it. It takes her a moment to remember that she's lost it at the train station in Irkutsk. The longer she thinks about it, though, the less unrealistic it all seems. A man who buys an entire airline because it 'seemed neater' _would_ have an entire island with all the amenities and luxuries of a resort to himself.  
   
Still, she feels like pinching herself wherever she looks.  
   
"Come," Saito says gently and takes her arm.  
   
She follows him in a trance.  
 

***

   
After Eames and Arthur have been taken to the equivalent to a private clinic, Saito tells her to get some rest. The answer to her question of where is a young girl in a white polo shirt over tan shorts, motioning for Ariadne to follow her.  
   
"Angara will take care of you," Saito says. "Anything you need, just ask."  
   
"I want to see them."  
   
Arthur was still out by the time they landed and Ariadne selfishly hopes that he'll stay that way for a while and that he might dream naturally for once to tell dream and reality apart. She doesn't blame him for hoping that the past days have been a nightmare, but wonders about his totem. She still has a hard time believing he lost it. It's an integral part of their world and even she managed to have her bishop in her pocket at all times. Well, until she lost it. Though if Arthur lost his, she doesn't feel quite so careless herself. Which just makes her petty, but she's scrambling for anything to make herself feel better right now.  
   
She walks into the building where Eames and Arthur are sleeping under pristine white sheets and sees a pile of clothing on a chair between their beds. The blood-stained jeans and shirts serve as a reminder of what happened. She gathers all the clothing up and decides to give it to Saito's assistants to be burnt. She never wants to see any of it again, and she doubts Eames and Arthur will either. As she lifts the pile, she goes through the pockets, hoping against hope that their whole reason for being in this mess hasn't been lost as well. What she finds is not the flashdrive with the decryption key, though.  
   
It's Arthur's die, wedged into his left jeans pocket.  
   
Ariadne sucks in a sharp breath of air as the realisation hits her – he nearly killed himself over this. She contemplates the red cube for a long while, watches Arthur sleep, his lip split and his jaw bruised, a bandage on his neck where the scalpel broke his skin. Such a fragile hold on sanity.  
   
Despite everything that happened in the past days, she can't help but wonder if the real danger isn't in the dreamshare itself.  
   
She curls her fist around the die, then places it on the nightstand where he will see it when he wakes.  
   
Ariadne stops at Eames' bed as well and looking at him, pale and broken, turns her stomach, makes fresh waves of guilt wash over her until she can't take it anymore and flees the room.  
   
Angara waits for her outside. She's a gentle shadow of blessed silence, takes her along a path of fine, white sand through the shade of coconut trees and shrubs. Toward its end, it broadens, opening to a vista that renders Ariadne breathless.  
   
In the bright sunlight, the path meanders over a white-sanded beach that sports a broad, wood-planked walkway, half covered by the sand blowing over it from the ocean breeze.  
   
She takes off her shoes and sinks her toes into the warm sand, breathing the scent of the ocean, soaking up a warmth that is so blessedly different from the heat of Russia.  
   
The walkway curves along the beach in a graceful arch until it reaches the water and turns into a jetty that leads to a cluster of straw-thatched wooden buildings on stilts. Ariadne pats after Angara over the sun-warmed wood and tries to enjoy the beauty of what she sees, the perfect symmetry of the buildings, the sea's clear aquamarine water, the white sand, the view on the island, the sun reflecting off her guide's hair – and fails. She's tired, exhausted and her head aches. She knows Eames is in good hands and Arthur is as well, so all she wants to do now is sleep for a week.  
   
Angara is light-footed as she opens the door to what Ariadne assumes is to be her hut. She does a bit of a double-take when she sees the ocean as she looks down – Saito had the entire floor made of glass. It's beautiful, painfully so, as is the view out the large window that spans the entire wall, but all Ariadne has eyes for at the moment is the bed. It's large, with crisp white sheets and the firm-looking mattress looks like Ariadne's idea of heaven.  
   
She lets Angara show her the facilities, refuses the offer of food and bids her goodbye in what she hopes isn't a rude manner.  
   
Ariadne is in the shower, looking at the painted silhouettes of trees on the wall through the spray of water when it hits her. For the first time in weeks, she's no longer running. Her knees suddenly feel like jelly, her legs refuse to support her and fatigue hits her so hard she sees blackness creeping in on the edge of her vision.  
   
She shuts off the shower and walks out of the bathroom in a daze, naked and dripping, pulls the sheets back and curls underneath them in the middle of the bed. For a moment, she feels like crying herself to sleep, but she's out before she musters the energy to try.  
 

***

   
Eames drifts in and out of consciousness, and he dreams. Or maybe he hallucinates. It doesn't really matter at this point.  
   
Sometimes, when he opens his still-swollen eyes, he thinks he sees Arthur, but the mirage is gone as soon as he blinks.  
   
By the time he can open his eyes fully – hold the clear sight, that's still fucked – Ariadne is at his side. Judging by his healing process, a good three to four days must have passed. God, but he's glad to see her. He has no idea how they made it out, only has bits and pieces of memory floating in and out, but seeing her here takes a load off his mind.  
   
"You look like shite," he comments when he has focused on her enough he can see her without having two Ariadnes sitting there. His voice sounds as though he's been drinking whiskey for three nights straight.  
   
"A real charmer, as always," she replies.  
   
"Takes more than a couple of Russian thugs to subdue this," Eames rasps and indicates his mouth. The attempt at a grin fails when he sees Ariadne's face fall.  
   
"Don't," she says, her voice quiet and small. "Just don't."  
   
"I'm fine, pet." Except he doesn't feel fine. He's dizzy and weak and feels like crap, but he'll be damned if he'll admit it.  
   
Her gaze rakes over him. "You don't look it."  
   
Eames bites back on a grin. He should have known there'd be no hiding before her all too keen eye. "Good thing you still have Arthur. He always was the pretty one."  
   
"Yeah. Good thing I have him." Ariadne's reply is hollow, she looks out the window at the foot of Eames's bed.  
   
"Is he playing lonesome cowboy?" Eames asks without needing to hear her answer. He knows Arthur.  
   
Ariadne's gaze snaps back to him. "How do you – "  
   
Eames tries smiling again. "I've known him a bit longer. He takes a few days to decompress after a job." He shifts on the mattress when he feels his arse going numb. "Give him a couple of days." The movement is too much already, he feels darkness creeping in from the sides.  
   
"Decompress, huh?" he doesn't see her anymore, but she sounds strange. "Is that what they call it these days?"  
   
It's an effort to open his eyes again. "Give him time," he repeats "and take some for yourself as well."  
   
He doesn't see Ariadne the next three days.  
 

***

   
Eames' limbs are pleasantly loose from the glass of champagne he had with dinner and so he walks back over the short stretch of sand leading to the planked path with a little more care than strictly necessary. He took dinner alone once again. The assistants are helpful and kind, the nurse who keeps checking on him is cute, but Eames misses Arthur and Ariadne's presence for these meals. Ariadne sent word that she was decompressing as well and he accepts that. She needs to deal with what happened to them, with how the reality of this job changed her.  
   
Arthur will be dealing with his own demons, just like Eames has dealt with his during his time alone. If he's honest though, he's sick of being alone.  
   
He's glad the nurses let him out of the infirmary. After a week of recovery, it feels like the key back to freedom. The sun is close to setting, the sky hinting at a vibrant coloured sunset and a star-filled night; the wood planks are still warm underneath his bare feet. The breeze opens his shirt, makes it flap against his sides. Eames shivers when the soft cotton glides over stitches and skin that's still oversensitive from the bruises healing just underneath. It'd been a damn close call, and he knows that if Saito hadn't swooped in like a guardian angel, he likely would have died of internal bleeding right there in the Russian taiga. Wouldn't Katya have laughed?  
   
Saito's mysterious arrival in Russia is something Eames still needs to get to the bottom of, because no one has answered his questions yet, but right now, he's reached the end of the walkway and he sees the light on in a hut on what the assistant had told him is their jetty.  
   
So that's where they've been hiding.  
   
Eames doesn't think when he guides his steps over the jetty to the entrance of the hut, it's a natural progression. The floor-length windows are pushed open wide to reveal the bathtub standing just behind it. After he heard of the amenities available, he considered soaking in his own and enjoying the view of the stars at night, just drifting and letting the warm water soothe muscles which are still wound up tight, but the stitches make it impossible. The tub before him is eggshell white and oversized, resting in an elegant mahogany frame. The faucet juts over it in a graceful arch on one end. On the other, Eames can barely make out the top of Ariadne's head.  
   
Arthur is nowhere to be seen. Eames wrinkles his brow, bemused, wondering where Arthur has got himself off to when he could be sharing a tub with a beautiful, naked woman.  
   
Ariadne is humming, as off-key as she was on the Transsib. Eames bites back on a smile and sits down on the lounger on the uncovered patio. Closing his eyes and feeling the breeze on his chest and bare legs, he listens to her for a while, then joins in on her rendition of _Michelle_.  
   
"I'm glad you're back, I missed you," she says into the silence that follows their impromptu duet. It's almost drowned in the gentle sound of the surf.  
   
Eames' heart constricts, but he keeps his voice light when he replies, "I was here all the time, pet."  
   
"No," she answers, haltingly, "you weren't."  
   
The silence stretches too long.  
   
"No need to remind me I'm mortal," he says, voice still joking even if he doesn't feel like it at all, "I feel it in every move I make." Just to lighten the mood and gross her out, he adds, "Can't even crack one off these days."  
   
She sucks in a sharp breath. "Eames – "  
   
"Joking, pet, joking," he laughs. "But I will admit that I miss your touch."  
   
Ariadne sighs. Water gurgles and splashes; he imagines her submerging and running both hands through her hair only to realise that she no longer needs to untangle it. It's too short for that now. Another twinge in his chest, another regret. He forces his mind away from it, imagines her relaxed and naked in the tub instead, remembers feeling her skin against his in Finland even before they first slept with each other. She's close, all he has to do is get up and reach out, but he stays rooted to the spot, for once unable to ask for what he wants.  
   
Ariadne moves in the tub, breaches the water's surface with a gasp. Eames opens his eyes, turns his head toward her and watches as she rises from the tub. The water sluices off her, the setting sun paints her skin a golden amber and accentuates every gentle curve. He clenches his hands around the lounge chair when she climbs out of the tub and walks over to him, slow and deliberate, naked and dripping, a petite Venus with the sound of the surf accompanying her every step. Eames can't remember the last time he saw a woman this beautiful to him.  
   
He holds his breath when she stops in front of him and contemplates him for a long moment, biting her lip. Then she straddles him, the water on her skin soaks into his shorts, drips from her breasts to his chest. She smells of citrus and spices and warm skin. She braces herself on the lounger, not on his body, mindful of his injuries, and kisses him, deep and open and dirty and he opens up to her with a groan, without hesitation, like a flower turning toward the sun. He glides his hands around her waist, hands framing her hips, flexing and kneading like a cat.  
   
She hums under her breath, nips at his lips, tries to deepen the kiss but Eames chases the taste of despair on her tongue and slows, gentles his hands over her slippery wet back.  
   
"Clever tongue," she murmurs and grinds against him and, oh, he can smell her and his mouth starts to water.  
   
"Move up," he says and she stops moving entirely, snaps her gaze to his.  
   
"Sure?" she ventures.  
   
He nods, curls his hands around her ass and pulls her up. She crawls up his body, pauses briefly to trace her tongue around his nipples until he squirms, then kisses her way up his throat to his lips. "Really sure?" she murmurs against them.  
   
Instead of an answer, Eames glides his hands into her hair, grabs a fistful and pulls her into a wet and dirty kiss full of promise.  
   
His breath picks up when she crawls higher, all the way up to his face, her knees braced on either side of his head. He can't hear, just feels her warm, water-slick skin against the sides of his face, so he cranes his neck back to see her face and finds her biting her lip as she lowers herself. Tentatively. Slowly. It gives him time to stroke her thigh and lick his lips before she's close enough that he can set his tongue against her clit.  
   
Her scent surrounds him, lush and ripe even over the smell of the bath salts. He breathes in deep and curls his hands around her thighs, kisses the inside of her thighs and feels her muscles quiver. His pants are tight enough to hurt when he moves his hands underneath her ass and to her vulva to part the soft flesh and open her up to him.  
   
"Eames – "  
   
Eames closes his eyes and just feels Ariadne and her reactions.  
   
The first touches of his tongue to her clit are rewarded with a gasp. She tastes sharp and clean and he craves it, craves the taste and her reaction. The gasps turn into a series of breathy whines and moans when he starts to work her in earnest, tongue laving and lapping, dipping into her only to press flat against her clit again. He has a hard time keeping her still above his face; she's gyrating her hips and chasing his tongue, trying to urge him to go deeper, faster. He flushes along with her, the heat dries the water on her skin and seeps into his own until Eames is rolling his own hips, desperate for friction the louder she gets, the more of her he tastes. It's probably a good thing he shaved earlier, or she wouldn't be able to walk tomorrow.  
   
It's a rush to feel her like this, completely out of control. When she starts to grind down against him in earnest and her breathing picks up, he has a moment of unexpectedly arousing panic that she'll smother him, so he lifts her ass just a little bit. She whines in frustration and he gets his cue, dips his tongue into her deep and sudden. Her breath stutters.  
   
"Eames, I – " Eames opens his eyes and finds her staring at him from what should be an impossible angle.  
   
She comes with her eyes open and fixed on his. He watches her mouth open on a silent scream, watches her gaze fracture and fall apart and her body seize up as she rides out the waves and god, she's beyond beautiful, it's almost enough to make him come in his pants like a bloody teenager.  
   
It's over as abruptly as it started, though, and Ariadne falls forward, braces herself on her arms and pants for a few long seconds that almost smother Eames. He rubs his wet chin and lips against her thigh, smearing her juices, pressing little kisses into her skin. Eventually, she climbs off him on shaky legs and for a heart-stopping second, he thinks that she'll leave.  
   
She catches his gaze and chuckles. Her voice is low and throaty, and god, Eames _needs_. "Not even island paradises come with contraceptives floating around in the air. I'll get a condom and then," she walks a few steps, naked an unconcerned and whispers over her shoulder, a low promise that makes the hair on his arms stand on end, "I'll make you come so hard you'll see stars."  
 

***

   
Ariadne walks back to her room on legs that feel rubbery, her head swims, her heart pounds. She all but trips over her own feet in her haste to get to the bedside cabinet where she found a nice supply of everything a guest could need. It had made her cringe and stupidly enough blush the first time she saw it, but she's grateful for the thoughtfulness now.  
   
She grabs a condom and the bottle of lube and slows her steps enough so it doesn't look as though she's running back out. Though it would probably amuse Eames, and it's exactly what she wants to do right now, she has some standards. Her mind is fizzing like a snapped wire, her clit is oversensitive and little sparks go through her with every step she takes. God, Eames.  
   
He waits for her when she returns, a glorious display of skin painted copper-golden by the setting sun. His mouth is parted on fast breaths and she knows she'll flush a deep red whenever she looks at his lips in the next few days.  
   
Ariadne twitches a grin when her gaze travels lower and she sees the tent in his shorts. She walks over to him, a deliberate swagger to her steps, loose-limbed and relaxed from the orgasm, and she knows exactly how she looks like, sees how much he likes watching her. She sets the supplies on the little table next to the lounger and leans over Eames, breathing kisses against his pecs and abs, traces his tattoos with her tongue. He tastes of sun-warm skin and salty sea air and she feels his chest rise and fall. His hands go to the back of her head and slide into her hair, flexing against her scalp. It makes her just more aware of how much she misses her long hair, how much he had loved playing with it and fisting his hands in it, so Ariadne moves away, takes his hands and places them back on the armrests of the lounger. This isn't the time for regrets. Her mind has been blessedly free of thoughts until now and she wants to keep it that way. All that matters now is Eames and her and what she'll do with him.  
   
"Keep them there. Don't move unless I tell you."  
   
Eames' pupils are dilated, but his eyes are amused. He likes it when she takes charge, in bed and outside of it, she's noticed that before. His hands go back to the armrests with a reluctant caress down her shoulders and curl around the wicker. It's a dark thrill of arousal that she can tell this man who is so physically superior to her what to do and that he actually complies.  
   
"Just don't ravish me," Eames says with a smirk.  
   
Ariadne snorts a laugh, kisses him deep and dirty and whispers against his lips when she pulls away, "Don't worry. I'll just fuck you." She nips at his lower lip. "If you're good."  
   
She's not used to dirty talk, but the way Eames cock' twitches and his pupils dilate further, she knows that she's on the right track. She kisses her way down from his chin to his chest, spends some time teasing at his nipples with her lips and tongue. A glance to the side shows her that he's clenching his hands into the armrests now. The play of muscles under smooth, sunset-kissed skin is mesmerising.  
   
She slides down farther, abandons his nipples for his belly-button and smirks as he squirms both into and away from her mouth. He's particularly ticklish over his left hipbone, just where the shorts begin, something she files away for later.  
   
Ariadne pulls off his shorts but keeps his boxers on for now, much to Eames' obvious disgruntlement. She traces the outline of his cock through the soft blue cotton of his boxers and is rewarded with a muted hiss.  
   
Once the boxers are removed, she rolls the condom on him, climbs to his lap, positions herself and starts to sink down, taking him in slowly, inch by inch, only to rise up again when he tries to thrust up. She rests her hands on his shoulders and gives him a feral smile, gyrates her hips and moves down, moves up, always outside of his reach, not yet letting him have what he wants.  
   
She waits until he doesn't expect it and only then does she sink down fully, takes him in to the hilt. They both groan, Eames feels huge inside her. He fills her perfectly. She gives an experimental clench of her muscles and watches his eyes roll back in his head. His hands twitch on the armrest, his thumbs brush against her side and send a spark of electricity through her. She gives up on her act then. "Go on. You can touch."  
   
Eames doesn't need to be told twice. He runs his hands up her sides and to her breast, cups them roughly and starts to knead them. He's not gentle, not careful, not handling her as though she'll break and it's so damn liberating that she wants to shout. She doesn't. Instead, she leans forward a little and reaches behind her, finds Eames' balls and runs an experimental finger over the soft skin. The reaction is immediate; he sucks in air and his hands tighten their grip on her breasts so much it nearly hurts, his balls draw up tight and he aims a stuttering thrust into her. It hits a particularly sensitive spot inside her and she gasps, but it's over too soon. Ariadne licks her lips, closes her eyes and repeats her move.  
   
"Fuck," Eames breathes. He sounds wretched, his voice rough and lower than usual. The sound glides underneath her skin, leaving warmth in its wake.  
   
If she thought he was too occupied to surprise her, she's been mistaken, though. Eames abandons her breasts, the warmth of his hand sorely missing the moment they're gone, but he trails his fingers between her breasts over her belly down to her clit. One hand clamps around her hip, the other dips between her folds and spreads the lube he finds. This time, Ariadne doesn't have to fake the clench of her inner muscles around him. She gulps in a deep breath and changes her position, leans back so that she's bent backwards and her hands are supporting her on his thighs. It leaves her exposed to him and Eames takes full advantage, circles and presses his thumb and index finger against her clit.  
   
The position has also changed the angle of his cock inside her and Ariadne feels the slow build of another orgasm in the small of her back. She speeds up her movements, rides him rough and fast. The sounds of their bodies slapping together is loud, it's accompanied by a wet noise where Eames' cock glides in and out of her. For the moment, the orgasm dances just out of reach. Ariadne chases it, selfish and reckless and rides Eames harder. Her hands must leave bruises on his thighs, just like his hand leaves a bruise on her hip, but she couldn't care less. She leans a little farther back, her spine a perfect bow, Eames circles the top of her clit with just a fingernail, light and teasing, while at the same time, he thrusts up and she thrusts down and – "There, yes, Eames, _Eames_ – "  
   
She falls over the edge. The orgasm blossoms out from the inside, shockwaves of pleasure racing out against her skin but she keeps up the maddening pace she has set, balances on one hand to press Eames' hand more firmly against her clit. It just keeps building and building, one climax seamlessly becoming two until she can't breathe anymore. Under her, Eames' moves become frantic and erratic, he thrusts up into her with abandon now. Through the rushing of blood in her ears, she hears him shout, feels him give one final, deep thrust that almost hurts now she's contracting around him and oversensitive, but it happens, it happens; his entire body stills and a broken sound escapes his throat, she feels him pulse even through the thin membrane of the condom.  
   
They breathe heavily for a while, their breath in unison. Ariadne is the first to recover, she straightens and pulls off Eames, making sure to keep hold of the condom. The sounds their bodies make when they separate is obscene. She loves it.  
   
Ariadne fits her body next to Eames' on the lounger and strokes her hand over his chest and arms, listens to his heart hammer against his chest. "Mmmh," she hums against his skin.  
   
"You'll be the death of me," Eames chuckles and glides his hand up and down her spine, from nape to tailbone. "Both of you."  
   
Ariadne stiffens, her hand stops on Eames' elbow. "Have you..." she trails off, pushes herself up on her elbow so she can look at Eames. It takes her a moment to focus when she's hit by their mingled smell – musk and sex and warm skin – but she captures his gaze eventually.  
   
"You've slept with him?"  
   
Eames blinks at her for a few seconds, then snorts a low, lovely laugh. "Pet, I love your overconfidence in my ability to heal, but I was out of commission until a day ago. Notice how you did most of the work just now?"  
   
Ariadne fights a blush. "So you haven't – "  
   
"Not spoken to him since I got out of the infirmary." Eames smoothes his hand down her back, long and slow, as though mollifying a cat.  
   
Ariadne frowns but settles next to him again, combing her fingers through his sparse chest hair thoughtfully. "I had hoped he'd talked to you at least."  
   
Eames' hand on her back slows a little. "He's still not talking?"  
   
She shakes her head. "Not since the scalpel incident."  
   
The hand on her back stops now. "What scalpel incident?"  
   
Ariadne tells Eames about what happened, glad that she can get it out of her system. She still has nightmares about it, still wakes to the lingering image of Arthur's blood covering her hands and his body lifeless at her feet. Eames glides his hand to the back of her head, rubs his thumb just under her ear, tiny, encouraging motions that keep her talking. She feels him freeze when she tells him about Arthur's totem.  
   
"Have you tried to talk to him?" he asks her when she's finished her tale.  
   
Ariadne huffs in annoyance. "For days, believe me. It's been a freaking week, and he hasn't said a word to me." She pokes her finger to Eames chest to underline her annoyance and concern, but remembers his bruises and pushes herself up on her elbow instead. "I listened to your advice at first and left him alone, but any more of the silent treatment, and I'm going to start throwing plates at his head."  
   
Eames chuckles. "You would."  
   
She swats his chest, careful this time. "Seriously, Eames. I had hoped that he'd at least talked to you."  
   
Eames shakes his head. "Sorry, love, he was in and out when I first woke, but then, with the lovely drugs Saito's doctor has been kind enough to prescribe, I've been in and out too. After that, I thought he was just taking some time to himself like he normally does. I had no idea he was still playing Mr. Not-Here." It bothers him more than he lets show; his concern is slipping through the cracks Ariadne and Arthur have pierced in his armour. She has a feeling there's a little more there that he's not telling her, but she can't muster up the strength to doubt both men.  
   
"But why – "  
   
"That, you need to talk to Arthur about. I suggest you tie him down first – " Ariadne raises an eyebrow at him; Eames grins and continues, "Wait, don't really do that. He wouldn't forgive you." She swats him again, harder this time. Eames looks mock-hurt. "Just corner him."  
   
She gives him a sceptical look. "Just like that?"  
   
"Well, maybe not just like," he indicates her naked body, "that."  
 

***

   
Ariadne manages to intercept Arthur the next day when he returns from one of his long walks along the beach. It's too late to evade her the way he's been doing for the past week. He braces himself for her anger, knows that he deserves it.  
   
"We need to talk," she states.  
   
They really don't. She's safe here, Eames is safe, and the rest doesn't matter.  
   
"Talk," he repeats, his tone flat.  
   
"Yes, talk. You know, conversation? That thing that's not a monologue?"  
   
"There's nothing to talk about."  
   
Ariadne's laugh isn't nice. "I beg to differ."  
   
"That's your prerogative." He turns around, away from her. He can't, god, he can't face her, if she knew – He'd rather push her away.  
   
"No," she snaps. Her voice is like a whipcrack, enough to root him in his spot. "I've had enough of this. I'm tired of pussy-footing around you, tired of you ignoring me. If you blame me, then tell me, but don't give me the silent treatment. I think I deserve better."  
   
Oh, but she's clever. Loud yet passive-aggressive at the same time, quiet and hurt on one hand and demanding as a force of nature on the other. If he doesn't leave now, he won't get another chance.  
   
Arthur realises that he's tired of running.  
   
She walks around him, raises her hands palm up. "Do you have any idea how much you scared me on that plane?"  
   
Arthur fights a wince; he'd been trying to suppress that particular event. "We were all scared. Eames – "  
   
"I'm not talking about Eames. I'm talking about you."  
   
He wishes she wouldn't.  
   
"Do you even remember?"  
   
Of course he remembers. Particularly the stomach-dropping horror of finding his totem on the bedside table and realising what he'd almost done.  
   
"Arthur!" She snaps her fingers in front of his face. "Do you remember that you put a scalpel to your neck?"  
   
"I do." He grasps her hand and brings his face close to hers. He looks her straight in the eyes and says what's been festering inside him since he woke up in the infirmary. "And if you knew what I did in Irkutsk, you'd have let me finish it."  
   
She blinks a couple of times, visibly digesting what he said. Her voice drops down to a whisper when she continues, "What the hell happened there, Arthur? What are you not telling me?"  
   
Arthur holds her gaze, weighs his options. In the end, he knows that there's no other way; she'll never let this go. "I told him to shoot you."  
   
Ariadne recoils. He watches her face undergo all the changes he feared for all the reasons he feared and slams his walls in place again with all his might. He deserves this, all of it, but it doesn't mean he'll let her see. She's too far in already and he'd rather have her hate him than explain.  
   
For a while, she just stands there, hands hanging limp at her side, breathing hard. Her eyes are wide, projecting all the outraged hurt, all the betrayed trust in the world. He watches her fight tears, but it's a losing battle.  
   
"Why?" she whispers.  
   
Arthur presses his lips into a thin line and doesn't answer.  
   
It's a last flare of temper that has her standing up on her tiptoes and slapping him, hard. The sting of it stays with him long after she leaves the room.  
   
Eames appears from the corridor with his arms crossed under his chest. He leans against the doorframe, shaking his head. "You're an unbelievably stupid wanker, you know that?"  
 

***

   
Ariadne runs. It's a human reflex, right? It's in the genes. Fight or flight. It doesn't matter that she's running from the situation, from her thoughts, whatever. The sand between her toes is warm, makes the sprint she's attempting difficult, but it doesn't matter as long as she can get what she just heard out of her mind.  
   
Arthur told them to shoot her.  
   
The situation was as fucked up as it could possibly be, and she didn't understand a word of the Russian conversation that went on, but all this time, she'd thought that he was negotiating, that he was bartering for their lives. Now she finds out that what he did was tell them to shoot her. The knowledge settles like ice in her stomach.  
   
She makes it as far as the scraggly rocks at the far end of the beach before she has to stop, her muscles screaming, her lungs protesting. The week here on the island has made her soft already.  
   
It's far enough away, though, so she climbs onto the rock that reaches the farthest out in the sea, pulls her knees to her chest and looks out over the water where the sun is beginning to set in spectacular shades of apricot, fuchsia and carmine. The view is lost on her, the beauty of the place around her seems stale and unreal.  
   
He told them to shoot her.  
   
What had he been thinking? How can he be this cold? Had the situation really been dire enough to warrant this step? Was it something they'd said, something that had come up in the negotiation – her or Eames? Of course, Arthur has known Eames longer, he would be on the top of Arthur's list. It's not a nice thought, but she knows that Arthur would likely choose Eames over her. It just doesn't make this any easier.  
   
She rests her cheek on her knees and looks along the beach toward their huts. It could all be so beautiful, so peaceful, so damn perfect. It had been, until now.  
   
Now she wants to get away from here, away from a man she's not sure she can trust any longer. Away from Eames, too, even if it's not his fault Arthur loves him more than –  
   
Ariadne stomps on her thoughts. No. She's not even thinking the L-word. Not now. Definitely not in the future. She remembers Arthur's hands on her skin in Moscow, the fear in his eyes when the thugs went for her in Irkutsk, his vulnerable kiss back in Finland, and turns her head so her forehead rests on her knees instead. She should ask Saito to book her a place on the next boat off the island. She can't stay here.  
   
A hand falls on her neck, heavy and warm, and Ariadne flinches as though electrocuted.  
   
"Shh, pet, no need to jump out of your skin."  
   
Eames.  
   
With her heart still hammering against her ribs, she asks, "What do you want here?"  
   
"A stroll along the beach seemed like a good idea," Eames answers. "Look at that sunset." It lacks enthusiasm but holds something else, so Ariadne turns to face him.  
   
The waning light gilds Eames, sculpts his muscles with long, golden brushstrokes. He's bare-chested, just in swimshorts. The light glints in his chest hair, turning it strawberry blond and makes the tattoos appear darker than they are. He smiles a private smile as he looks down the beach and she allows herself to see, for the first time since their encounter on the patio, to take in the long lashes, golden in the sunset, the high forehead, the full lips. Despite the bruises still fading along his chest and face, he's a devastatingly handsome man. She doesn't blame Arthur for choosing Eames.  
   
She follows his gaze, though, looks down the beach and sees Arthur on the patio of the hut, his elbows on the railing, his back bowed, his head in his hands.  
   
Ariadne looks away.  
   
"Do you know what he didn't say?"  
   
So Eames listened. How fitting. Irrational anger stirs in Ariadne and she wonders if Eames just faked his enthusiasm the night before. He's a professional liar, after all, isn't he? It would only make sense. If they both wanted to get rid of her, they could have just let the guy shoot her. "How can I? He didn't _say_ it, did he?"  
   
Eames chuckles, then sighs. "I swear, one day the two of you really will be the death of me. And not in the good way."  
   
"Why don't you just go to him?" she snarls. "Then you'll only have one of us to worry about. It's not like you need me, anyway."  
   
"Do I have to throw you over my shoulder again?" Eames asks, but it doesn't sound amused anymore. His smile is slipping; he looks tired.  
   
"Just – " she stops, her voice breaks. "Just go to him."  
   
"My idiot pet," Eames says, exasperated fondness in his voice. "Come here." He pulls her against him, into a tight embrace and she wants nothing more than to sink into it and stay in it forever.  
   
"Do you know what he didn't say?" Eames asks again. "He never told you his motives." He pulls her closer still until his lips rest against the crown of her hair and she feels his heartbeat against her skin. "You didn't understand what they were saying, did you?"  
   
She shakes her head.  
   
Eames lets his hands glide over her back, teases at the thin strap of her bikini before he settles on to long, soothing movements. "Arthur knew we had no chance. We were dead the moment they brought us into that hut." Eames' voice is hypnotic despite the horrific truths he's telling. "They were going to torture us. He had seen me swallow the flashdrive, but he knew they were going to start with you, because like it or not," Eames seems to know what she's going to say before he says it, "for thugs the woman is always the weakest link in the chain. They meant to torture you, Ariadne."  
   
Ariadne knows where this is going and squirms against his hold which has tightened. "Don't," she pleads, but he doesn't stop, says out loud what she hasn't allowed herself to contemplate lest she go insane.  
   
"They would have raped you in front of our eyes before they killed you. Even if you gave them what they wanted, they still would have done it."  
   
Ariadne shivers, sways and Eames pulls her closer still as though he can try to do now what he couldn't do then – protect her. "Fooling them into shooting you, making it quick for you... " he trails off. "It was the only protection Arthur could still offer you."  
   
The whole enormity of the situation back in the Russian forest comes crashing down on her when his words sink in. She had been afraid, but she had never feared, never known it had been that close.  
   
One question burns on her tongue, though. "But how – "  
   
"He would have put a bullet through his own brain."  
   
Ariadne swallows reflexively. God, Arthur.  
   
The sun has dipped into the ocean, night falls rapidly. First stars appear.  
   
"We need to," she starts and hates how unsteady her voice is, "we have to – "  
   
"I know." Eames nods. He positions himself behind her and pulls her against him so they're sitting back to chest, his legs framing hers. His hands ghost over her arms, light but steady. "Let me think of something."  
 

***

   
By the time Eames tries to put Arthur under for the first time, Arthur hasn't slept a full night in eight days.  
   
He's beginning to see double but still manages to recognise what Eames is trying and shuts the door in his face.  
   
Arthur ignores Eames' gentle pleas to let him help, even as he sits with his back against the smooth wooden door and listens to Eames' voice while he stares through the hut's glass floor at a group of colourful fish.  
   
He doesn't need help. He needs time.  
 

***

   
Ariadne avoids him and he doesn't blame her. He wishes she would take her frustration out on him, but he doesn't even deserve her anger right now.  
   
He steps aside when he meets her on the jetty, fades back into his room. The sound of her door clicking shut reminds him of a gunshot.  
   
In the night, he hears her wake up from nightmares and envies her for them. Eames is always there to comfort her after. The walls of the huts are thin, the water carries sound well.  
   
Arthur wonders if, after that night he heard them out on the patio, Ariadne sleeps with Eames. If they do, they're discreet.  
   
Not that it should matter if they fuck each other's brains out. He's had his chance and he blew it. With both of them.  
   
He doesn't eat the food they send, even if it contains his favourites and smells fantastic. He's not hungry.  
   
He stays awake, lying supine on the starched white sheets of his oversized bed, hands stretched out to the sides as though crucified. The lights around him are gentle enough that he can still see the stars when he looks out the window. In the distance, he thinks he can make out a fire on the next island's shore.  
   
Carbolineum isn't flammable.  
   
He smells it again, the oily, cloying reek of it and the scent memory drowns out the salt-water smell of the sea. The images come back, unbidden, the way they do every night and replay in his mind again and again until he falls into an unrestful, too light sleep.  
 

***

   
Eames gets Arthur under when Arthur, his body refusing to take even one more step, falls asleep in the giant sun-shaded lounge-chaise out on the deck one afternoon.  
   
He's still alert enough in the dream to take Eames by surprise and overpower him. Arthur ties Eames up against the metal frame of a large bed, brushes a kiss against the tattoo on Eames' chest and shoots himself in the head.  
   
When Eames wakes up five minutes later, he's cursing. Arthur has already locked himself inside his room.  
 

***

   
Eames tries four more times.  
   
Arthur overhears him talk about it with Ariadne, which is how he finds out that Ariadne doesn't agree with Eames' method. By the time Arthur hears Ariadne say the word therapist, he's shutting down again and walks down the beach faster in order to avoid their voices. Despite nightfall, the sand is still warm between his bare toes.  
   
It's easier to take these walks at night when everyone sleeps. He's always been a nocturnal beast, but it has never served him as well as it does now.  
   
He can't run from the memory of Ariadne's and Eames' conversation, though, no matter how hard he tries.  
   
He doesn't need a therapist. He needs fucking amnesia.  
   
Amnesia.  
   
Amnesty.  
   
And sleep. God, he needs sleep. But of course, with Eames seizing every opportunity he can to get Arthur under and do what every sane person in the dreamshare business does, sleep is dangerous.  
   
Dreamshare psychotherapy.  
   
Arthur laughs.  
   
Dom never wanted it. Never offered it to Arthur, either.  
   
He's not going to start now with Eames, not when he has the baggage of over eight years buzzing around in his head.  
   
He's always dealt with his demons alone, never needed any help.  
   
He'll deal with the new ones, too.  
 

***

   
"Why don't you give it up, Eames?" Arthur asks. "It's not going to change anything that happened." He's tired. So tired. His entire body aches with fatigue.  
   
Eames looks at him for a long time; rubs his hand over his neck and mouth in fast, aborted movements. These are nervous ticks, tells Eames never lets show unless pushed to the limit of his patience. Arthur realises too late that he's had his warning.  
   
"You know what?" Eames says after an unnervingly long pause. "Sod it. I'm tired of pussy-footing around this."  
   
He smashes his fist to Arthur's jaw. The blow has Arthur keeling over backward and Eames is on him without remorse, using Arthur's current physical and mental state, his unwillingness to fight back while Eames is still not fully healed, to overpower him with an insulting ease. Eames has the wristband with the needle wrapped around Arthur's wrist within a fraction of a second. The sharp pain of the needle breaking skin barely registers over the pain of the blow. It's too late to fight, the lull of the Somnacin flooding his veins is too strong.  
   
Arthur opens his eyes and he's back in the hut in Russia, tied to a chair, watching projections of himself, Eames on the floor, and Ariadne in the corner. The thugs are there as well, still frozen in mid-movement while the dream shapes around Arthur’s memories.  
   
"I didn't want to have to resort to this, but you're leaving me no choice," Eames says as he appears next to Arthur – it’s the real, angry, already beaten up Eames.  
   
Arthur's heart begins to hammer against his ribs, he squirms against the restraints. Cold sweat collects on his scalp and upper lip.  
   
"You're not getting out of here," Eames comments conversationally. He contemplates Arthur's projection of him on the floor. "I liked myself better before the nose was broken."  
   
Arthur screws his eyes shut. He doesn't need to see this, doesn't want to see this. God, he's going to kill Eames when he wakes up.  
   
"None of that now, pet," Eames says as he turns Arthur's head back to their counterparts. "Look."  
   
Neat Freak is getting out his knife and moving toward Ariadne.  
   
"Stop," Arthur whispers. "Eames, please."  
   
"No," Eames replies. His voice is silk over steel. Eames' temper rarely gets the better of him, but when it does, it's a terror of precise, remorseless, clean strikes. "You'll watch how this would have gone if you hadn't been ready to have Ariadne shot." He checks the restraints, then bends close to Arthur's ear. "You wanted to deal with this alone?"  
   
A gun is in Eames' hand suddenly and Arthur's heart stop-starts. Eames won't. _He_ _can't._ "Eames, no, _Eames_ – "  
   
"Then deal," Eames says, raises the gun to his own head and shoots. In the corner of the hut, the projection of Ariadne begins to scream.  
 

***

   
Saito finds him when Eames is having a very late lunch on the patio of the main hut. He's eating spiced soba noodles with tempura shrimp. Normally, the simplicity of the dish would please him, but his mind is stuck on Arthur and how he will handle Eames' admittedly brutal psychotherapy dream. He hopes that Arthur will see it's for his best, that Eames' intentions are good. Then again, road to hell and all that jazz.  
   
Eames concentrates on his chopsticks, on the clicking of the polished wood, the sound of the surf and tries to keep his conscience subdued. Necessary. It was necessary.  
   
Directing his attention to Saito proves a good enough distraction. They sit in silence for a while; Eames steals looks at Saito and is once again struck by how regal Saito looks, even relaxed and casual in a black polo shirt and khakis. A glance down shows him Saito is barefoot and that almost gives Eames a mental whiplash, no matter how casual Saito has been ever since he first came to see Eames after he woke up.  
   
Saito quietly orders a glass of white wine and Eames watches him trace the condensation on the outside of his glass with long, slim fingers. Every gesture is elegant, refined; Saito doesn't just act it, he's not some newly rich guy, he's always had money and always will have it. Or at least, that certainty is back now. Before Suz had publicised the decryption key for the SFNX program, Saito had still been in danger of disappearing and never reappearing.  
   
As if he catches Eames' thoughts, Saito fishes something from his trouser pocket and places it on the table.  
   
Eames blinks at the object a few times. He has to swallow the bile that rises before he can speak again. "I never wanted to see that thing again." Memories surface and he clamps down on them with vigour. Bright side. Bright side. They're safe here. Even if Arthur never forgives him for his effort at dreamshare therapy, they are all three safe. "It's bloody useless now anyway, isn't it?"  
   
Saito turns the slim stainless steel flashdrive in his fingers, dark eyes filled with amusement that fans around them in a cobweb of fine wrinkles.  
   
"This is not that flashdrive. The contents were copied to this one."  
   
"I do not even want to imagine what wanker got stuck with doing that job." Eames contemplates his suddenly very unappealing dish. His appetite has just taken a nose dive.  
   
"Someone who deserved it," Saito tells him.  
   
Someone like Nash if Arthur's story about his screw up with Cobol and Saito was accurate and Arthur is always accurate.  
   
"The food is unsatisfactory?" Saito asks, noticing Eames has quit eating.  
   
"Just," Eames pushes the plate away, "not so hungry anymore."  
   
Saito contemplates the drive again. "All the death and pain and money that went into retrieving this and in a few weeks it will be utterly useless."  
   
So Saito knows as well. During his time in the infirmary, Eames spent time with the tablet computer and Wi-Fi access so kindly provided by Saito and he found out that the program Saarela invented was a recipe for disaster. A small tool for global market manipulation on a big scale, the country that first got its hands on it effectively would be a new superpower, so long as it did it soon.  
   
He had wondered the entire time what the rush was, why the clients were so keen on getting the information so quickly. He found his answer in a newspaper article in the financial section of the _Wall_ _Street_ _Journal_. By the end of this week, a new market protocol will go online and effectively render Saarela's program useless.  
   
It’s all so damn fucked up. "Sounds like the way everything goes in life."  
   
"Feeling cynical tonight?" Saito asks, his mouth twitching into the merest hint of a smile.  
   
Eames plasters a fake grin on his face. "I feel cynical every night."  
   
"Cynicism is the retreat of the wounded idealist."  
   
"Or the rational response to experience," Eames replies. He's at ease with his self and has been for years. That's why he's eating soba noodles and enjoying conversation while Arthur tortures himself over impossible choices and Ariadne obsesses over what they could've, might've, should've done. Past is past, Eames thinks, and wallowing just leaves you covered in mud. Though he has nothing against a bit of naked mud wrestling with the right partners...  
   
"Ah. Experience," Saito murmurs. "Useful, but not always enough. I suppose that is why Arthur recruited Ariadne."  
   
"Cobb first."  
   
"Mr. Cobb first," Saito agrees.  
   
"No one made her agree."  
   
"No."  
   
Eames sips his drink for something to do, then sighs, because Saito knows how to play the silence game. Eames is a talker by nature. All Saito needs to do is stay quiet long enough and Eames will say something just to relieve the awful pressure of saying nothing.  
   
"Arthur thought it was an easy extraction. Saarela didn't read as a dangerous mark on paper."  
   
"Saarela himself wasn't, was he?"  
   
"No. Ariadne couldn't have conned the location of that flashdrive out of him if he had been." The original flashdrive, not the one sitting on the table next to Saito's drink, or the copy he gave to Suz to upload.  
   
"If she hadn't extracted the actual decryption key from him rather than just its location, they never would have touched him, would they?"  
   
Eames shakes his head. There's no need to sugarcoat things with Saito. He never would utter word of this in front of Ariadne, but Saito is pragmatic enough not to blame himself for causality. "No," he says. "Most likely not. Saarela was useful and necessary to them as long as he was the only one who knew the location of the decryption key. But once Ariadne had it, once _we_ had it, he was just a dangerous loose end, a wild card who might figure out a way to block his own program or create another, better one."  
   
Saito nods. "So they killed him."  
   
"And framed Ariadne." That still rankles. Even with the program out there, Ariadne is still the prime suspect in a murder investigation and might never be able to set foot into a European country under her own name and without a disguise. Not that that's a problem for Eames, but he's not callous enough to think it might not be one for her.  
   
"That is not too far off the mark, though, is it?" Saito asks, rubbing his chin. "If she hadn't taken it from Saarela, he might still be alive now."  
   
"She didn't pull the trigger." Eames can't help the defensiveness that creeps into his voice, even if what Saito says is the truth. Yes, she acted rashly and without a plan, but her intentions were good. She's not to blame.  
   
"No, but if she'd waited, if everything had gone according to plan, the problem would have solved itself by the end of this week, wouldn't it? No dead Finnish genius. Neither of you would have been injured. _Conditio_ _sine_ _qua_ _non_." Saito sounds thoughtful, not accusatory. He's just stating facts, like the businessman he is.  
   
Nevertheless, it rankles. "We could trace the whole thing back to you, then, too," Eames says and meets Saito's gaze head on. You don't bite the hand that feeds you, but Eames can't help it. He blames it on his injuries making him more thin-skinned than usual.  
   
"You could." Saito leans back and tales hold of his wine glass again. He swirls the content before he continues. "By all means, you should." He toasts Eames and takes a sip of wine. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. "But while I regret what happened to you, I do not blame myself for it."  
   
"Not for me personally or for us?"  
   
"Do not play coy, Mr. Eames. You invited yourself in."  
   
The first and only one Eames can blame is himself. He knows that and has never blamed Saito. "Touché."  
   
After a while, he ads, "So what about Ariadne?"  
   
A shadow falls over Saito's face for a mere moment. "I regret her involvement the most." He rolls his shoulders and leans forward in his chair, rests his lower arms on the table. "But once again, it was not my decision that got her into it. It was Arthur's. This is where we head into chaos theory territory. Small differences in initial conditions would have yielded widely diverging outcomes. Arthur might never have called Ariadne. You might never have joined them. Ariadne could have refused Arthur's invitation. The first extraction attempt might have been successful. Saarela might have refused to tell Ariadne where the encryption key was hidden. Even if Arthur's future behaviour had been fully determined by my handing him the telephone number and by the initial job description, his actions still would not have been predictable."  
   
Saito leans back in his chair and examines Eames.  
   
Eames, for his part, is stunned for the moment. Stunned by how alike he and Saito think.  
   
"So what now?" Eames asks eventually.  
   
"Now," Saito replies and laces his fingers over his stomach, "you work for me."  
   
"Again."  
   
"Precisely."  
   
"I'm not sure we're ready to – "  
   
"You are," Saito interrupts him.  
   
"Saito, I mean no disrespect, but it's not an offer if you don't give us a chance to refuse it."  
   
Saito's smile spreads over his face, treacle-slow and sardonic. "You won't."  
   
Eames leans back in his chair and attempts to project an aura of indifference. "Won't we?"  
   
Saito smiles wider and Eames knows from that smile that Saito sees right through him. "You won't."  
   
Eames expels the air from his lungs, accepting his fate, and asking, "Let's hear it then."  
   
Saito looks out toward the ocean, to the moonlight reflecting off the waves. "I have plans on a neighbouring island. A resort for business partners. Imposing enough to impress them, but far enough away I won't have to deal with them in my refuge here. It seems, however, that I have lost my architect to malaria." Saito shakes has head. "What a terrible shame, he was a good man."  
   
A pause follows, one Eames doesn't break, no matter how much he itches to find out more. Saito likes a big entrance, in life and in conversation, so he waits.  
   
"Recent events," Saito continues with a pointed look at Eames, "have led me to believe that I should hire a new security advisor."  
   
Eames breathes quietly, as though any noise from him might shatter the illusion.  
   
"I believe I need to fire the project accountant as well."  
   
"Accountant," Eames echoes weakly, trying hard to fight the laughter that is stirring in his chest.  
   
Saito nods. "I accept only the absolute best." He looks sly and still self-amused then. "I don't suppose you know three qualified people willing to accept these jobs for the time being?"  
   
"An accountant," Eames repeats. This time, he doesn't stop the laughter from surfacing.  
   
Accountant.  
   
Arthur will kill him. Slowly.  
   
So, naturally, he says yes. Arthur, no doubt, is planning his demise for the impromptu dreamshare therapy he resorted to earlier in the day, so Eames has nothing to lose.  
 

***

   
Arthur still feels shaky when he walks over the planked walkway toward the light in the dining area of the main hut. He can't say exactly what makes him guide his steps here, but he knows that he doesn't want to be alone. The cold he feels right now has nothing to do with the evening's chill.  
   
The light from the elegant, faux 'hut' seeps out in a gentle golden glow, it looks airy and cosy at the same time. When Arthur steps closer, he hears voices.  
   
"So they killed him."  
   
Saito. He hadn't realised their benefactor had returned to the island, which indicates just how out of it he's been.  
   
"And framed Ariadne."  
   
Eames. An irrational wave of anger washes over Arthur upon hearing Eames' voice, calmly making conversation while leaving Arthur – No, stop. Focus. There was a reason why Eames did what he did. It's just a little hard to see it when he's still jittery from the images of the dream, while his muscles still burn from the phantom strain of trying to break the restraints tying him to the chair.  
   
Arthur leans against the wall just beyond the doorway, wrestling with the impulses to join them or flee. He hates to eavesdrop, but it's impossible not to while standing so close. Voices always carry near the water and there are no competing noises to obscure the conversation.  
   
"That is not too far off the mark, though, is it? If she hadn't taken it from Saarela, he might still be alive now."  
   
Of course, who else would Saito be talking to about the Saarela extraction but Eames?  
   
"She didn't pull the trigger." Arthur hears the defensiveness in Eames' voice and feels his own stir as well. It wasn't Ariadne who killed Saarela. The spooks did.  
   
"No, but if she'd waited, if everything had gone according to plan, the problem would have solved itself by the end of this week, wouldn't it? No dead Finnish genius. Neither of you would have been injured. _Conditio sine qua non_."  
   
Arthur hears a gasp and misses Eames' reply when he whirls to see Ariadne standing in the shadows. It's the first time he has actively looked at her since he confessed what happened in Irkutsk and the change between then and now couldn't be bigger. Her hand is pressed over her mouth and all colour has drained from her face.  
   
She didn't know, Arthur realises as he watches her silent horror. She blamed herself for Saarela's death before, but the full extent of her responsibility hadn't been clear to her.  
   
He watches her knees buckle, her lips quiver, and a mute scream of dismay seize her entire body until it radiates from every pore. Watches and then moves, because he's not selfish enough to let her suffer without doing something, no matter how he's been telling himself he should stay away from her. She needs someone in this moment, someone who hasn't been talking about her in the next room, objectively dissecting her actions in the context of the big picture she had been blind to before. His every instinct tells him to go to her, because she doesn't need words now.  
   
She's cracking under the pressure, breaking into a thousand pieces.  
   
He can't let her break alone.  
   
Arthur catches her before she crumples to the ground. Her entire body trembles, much like his own did when he woke from the dream Eames forced him into earlier. He pulls her into his arms, tucks her face against his neck, and strokes her back as she begins to cry, first silent, then hiccupping, keening. He smells the regret on her, the guilt, feels it in the tears soaking his shirt as he holds her.  
   
"I killed him," she whispers in between messy sobs. "I – "  
   
"No, you didn't." He believes that.  
   
"You heard Saito, if I hadn't, if I – "  
   
"You heard Eames, too. You didn't pull the trigger." The words come easily, though they're much the same ones Eames threw at him and he rejected. Maybe saying them for Ariadne will make it easier to believe them for himself too. Maybe this is some weird cosmic joke, the proverbial clue-bat hitting him squarely over the head. It'd just be his luck.  
   
"What does it matter? He's dead because I fucked up. I keep fucking things up, Arthur, don't you see, I – "  
   
"In that case, he'd be dead because I invited you in. _I_ accepted the job. I stayed in touch with you. I worked with Cobb and Cobb brought you in." He's had that thought, but he knows it's not how life works. It could have happened many other ways. It didn't. Time to live with it. "How far do you want to spin this? Chicken and egg? Kain and Abel?"  
   
She thumps her fist against his chest, hard. "Don't mock me, you bastard."  
   
"Ariadne," he takes her chin and rubs his thumb over her wet cheeks, then repeats what he just thought. "It could have happened many other ways too. Saarela made himself a target when he first mentioned the program online."  
   
"But if I – "  
   
"What? Do you think they would have kept him alive once they had their hands on the program?"  
   
Her gaze wanders to the shoreline and he sees that he's not getting through.  
   
"Imagine he hadn't given you the flashdrive." Arthur forces her to keep eye-contact. "The extraction failed, Ariadne. The spooks were running out of time. They would have tortured the location out of him."  
   
"How do you know they didn't after he gave it to me?"  
   
"Because he wasn't worth it. They knew we had it. He was just a loose end. They wouldn't have wasted time on him."  
   
"So, Irkutsk..."  
   
Arthur breathes against the nausea that wells up. He doesn't want to talk about Irkutsk. He wants to repress, forget it ever happened. "Same thing. We were dead either way."  
   
"So why were you beating yourself up over Irkutsk when you're now telling me not to? No one even died in Irkutsk."  
   
Damn her. Quick, clever, merciless Ariadne. With a clean, precise cut, she's dissected the flaw in his own logic. If he tells her she is forgiven, then he must forgive himself. No way around it.  
   
Arthur pulls her close again, tucks his nose against her hair. He doesn't want to answer. Doesn't believe he can forgive himself, no matter how much he needs to. But... she needs this from him.  
   
"You didn't pull the trigger," he tells her and, then, makes himself swallow and say, "Neither did I."  
   
"Physicians, heal thyselves." Eames' voice is gentle and fond. "You're both idiots."  
   
Ariadne locks her arms around Arthur's waist. Neither of them looks at Eames. Arthur's not sure he's ready to. He isn't going to let Eames have everything his way, though. "That must be why we hang out with you."  
   
"Hey," Eames says. "Hey. I'm tired of being the grown-up around here. Man up. I need some TLC after all this." His tone is light, cheerfully demanding, but it's forced. Eames is afraid. Arthur just can't figure out of what.  
   
Ariadne snorts a wet laugh. She pulls away from Arthur and looks up at Eames. "Your timing is impeccable, Eames."  
   
Arthur tightens his arms around her and mutters, "I could argue that."  
   
Eames' gaze meets his, curious and cautious, though, and Arthur finds himself nodding, admission that Eames is forgiven for the dream, that it may have – _may_ – have served its purpose. He is here, arms around Ariadne's slim, warm form, and he wants Eames with them too, wants the contact he's been denying himself.  
   
Behind them, Saito slips out of the hut, walking slowly toward his own quarters on the other side of the island. They're alone now, no more assistants, no one but the three of them.  
   
Arthur closes his eyes, then takes a deep breath, before he gets up. He draws Ariadne to her feet slowly and keeps hold of her hand after.  
   
She looks at him with a questioning frown, but he's committed. Man up, Eames said. It's time. He reaches for Eames, hand open, palm up.  
   
"Come on." Ariadne resists a little and Arthur adds, "We've spent enough time apart."  
 

***

   
It's different this time, unsure, gentler.  
   
Arthur touches her reverently, pulls her shirt from her arms and while he's still busy untangling her arms from it, Eames is there, his lips against her back. Eames trails warm, dry pecks along the knobs of her spine. She laughs when – of course Eames knows how – he opens her bra with his teeth. Arthur pulls the bra away from her skin then draws it down her arms and away from her breasts, revealing them to the air and his eyes. He just looks for a long, odd moment that has Ariadne blushing. She refuses to squirm, except maybe into Eames hands, hands which are digging into her lower back muscles now. Ariadne groans in appreciation and Arthur's gaze snaps back to her face.  
   
He's uncertain, she realises. Doesn't know if she still welcomes him after his confession, even if she has forgiven him. Ariadne breathes in. This isn't the time for a quip or she'd tell him how stupid he is being. She reaches for his hand, places a kiss to the centre of it and then guides it so his palm rests over her heart and holds it there. She bends forward to kiss him but stops just before their lips meet and looks him in the eyes. She lays it all out there, the trust, the gratefulness, the way she missed him, how worried she was about him. She may not be ready to say the L-word, nor even ready to think it, but she wants to show it.  
   
Eames rests his cheek against her shoulderblade, stubble rasping against her skin and raising goosebumps along her arms. He's listening for her heartbeat. Back in Irkutsk, she'd thought she'd never have this again, that she'd lost them both. Her heart is ready to burst now with relief, elation, the... happiness and sorrow and lingering fear. They're all so very fragile.  
   
They're caught in a bubble here, strangely out of time. The sunlight glitters on the waves and reflects in Arthur's eyes, turning them from dark brown to gold-flecked. The dance of shadow and light paints wave-like structures onto the arm Eames slings round her waist and ripples the tattoo on his shoulder. A warm breeze comes through the open door of the hut, bringing with it the iodine scent of the sea and the sound of the hut's straw roof ruffling in the wind. Waves lap against the hut's stilts; they whisper and lull in shades of indigo and azure and it's painfully perfect. Ariadne can't take it anymore, she has to kiss Arthur, has to wrap her arms around herself to pull Eames closer.  
   
So she kisses Arthur, kisses Eames, watches them kiss each other. Little by little, they sink on the bed, a tangle of limbs, skin against skin.  
   
They don't need more than that. Ariadne just wants to feel the two men breathing next to her and know that in the morning, they'll still be themselves, still be safe, and she'll wake up to feel them beside her. Arthur to her left and Eames to her right, or maybe the other way around. They'll wake up to the blue sky of a new day, of a new life, but most importantly, they'll wake up.  
   
Maybe they'll have lazy morning sex and maybe they'll just have breakfast, but they'll do it together, alive, when it seemed so unlikely not so long ago. They're alive. They've survived.  
   
She falls asleep to that certainty, feels Eames heart beat against her back and Arthur's breath caress her chest, with her right hand's fingers laced with Eames' and her left cupped against the vulnerable curve of Arthur's nape, and thinks, _I'm not afraid anymore._  
   
 _The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Acknowledgements_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  _Personal note_
> 
> First of all, this story would not exist without Auburn and Murron. These two ladies are _angels_. Both are the story's Godmothers. The help they offered, the times they spent chatting with me about it or listened to me whine, lent me an ear or made me a cup of tea, the speed they beta-read with, all they gave cannot be measured and there are not enough words or deeds in the world to thank them. I will try with just two words, nevertheless, coming from the very bottom of my heart: Thank you.
> 
> Second: Kymericl has made gorgeous, _gorgeous_ art for this story. Have you seen it yet?
> 
> Third: Additional thank you to dagnylilytable for checking my Russian grammar in one particular phrase. I have relied on my memory of 9 years of Russian classes for the rest and only hope I haven't butchered it too badly. If I did (the last class was 14 years ago, after all), feel free to let me know in an e-mail so I can correct it.
> 
> Fourth: Finlandia Vodka is quite excellent. The obvious choice, but if you like Vodka, give it a try.
> 
> Fifth: Try going into a sauna after having written or read this story. It's ... interesting.
> 
>  
> 
> Additional notes on the research that went into this story can be found on [LJ](http://eretria.livejournal.com/681777.html)


End file.
